O little heart of thine,
From where have you got such mysteries for thee?
Some seeketh something,
Some seeketh not that thing,
And some say seeketh not anything!
O Buddha! How come you seeketh not?
Thy fancy that thou did seeketh within!
O yes! Thou still swayed within vacuum and battled!
Battled for peace, the eternal peace...
O little heart of thine,
What is it that you have for thee?
As when the pounding is hard within thy chest,
Thy wander at the universe and segas it walks and talks
about!
What thy seeketh is, is not yet known to thee,
And what thy seeked long forgotten.
Hey wait! Does thy seeketh or seeketh not?
O insensitive dreamer, ofcourse thy does!
As in thy living is thy seeking,
And in thy cherishing is thy seeking,
And in thy hating is still thy seeking,
When thy seeketh not, thy still seeketh,
And that seeking is thy very own death!
Still, when the sun goes down,
When the dark embraces thy kingdom,
Or before sunset, at some lakeside,
All that thy is able to reflect at the dark hour is:
O little heart of thine!
From where have you got such mysteries for thee?
The mysteries that walks through unknown streets,
Whispers to thee of unknown people,
Reminds to thee of forgotten scents,
As if some long left legacy is still there to unfold.
And in the midst of it all,
Stands thee, caged within the flesh,
Still not able to comprehend:
O little heart of thine!
From where have you got such mysteries for thee?
-Khadija Farrukh
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