They who wear the crown of thorns, know whatever is will be;
Once time was still, before it moved, and again it still will be.
No spark arrives from dawn to dusk, none from dusk to twilight:
If this be the good year you assured, then rest assured it will be.
There will be no death in the afterlife, if an afterlife there is;
But here if death were sentenced tonight, will this little life still be?
Mystics who know the secret of heavens, see how even they chant:
Although no Pope will reprimand, though no fatwa there will be.
When ships blown in friendly seas, fall martyrs to friendly silences,
Friends are enough to lose a war, though worthy foes there will be.
Qasim, what breed your stardust be, what caste did you marry?
You are blind, but the world has eyes—what glisters, gold will be.
Photograph Courtesy: Tim C. Gundert, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 