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Post Your Favourite Poems

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Those poems Baradar posted like a year ago were priceless, incomparable even.

Real talk

But those were co-authored by brother Mahdavist. So when you are talking about their unbelievable awesomeness, remember to do a "zekr e kheir" of him.

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Some very nice poems masha'Allah. I haven't decided yet which is is my favorite to post, but there is this couplet from Hafiz regarding the 'urafa (gnostics) which I like. Many try to degrade these great personalities and give them little to no importance. Their life stories are truly inspiring and contain many lessons:

The stories of the gnostic masters nourish the soul.

Go, ask of the mystery; then come, and tell us the tale. - Hafiz

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Thought I would share:

I walked a mile with Pleasure,

She chattered all the way;

But left me none the wiser,

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow

And ne'er a word said she;

But, oh, the things I learned from her

When Sorrow walked with me!

- Robert Browning Hamilton, Along the Road

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I don't remember the name of the poet (do remind us if you know) but that's a stanza out of a long poem I remember by heart. There's nothing extraordinarily special about it; just a poet's way of expressing his pain of separation from the beloved.

If there were an antonym for suicide

We could all choose when to be born

I would have been born after that day

So I could not remember you

And so my fingers would stop pointing

At all the things that aren't there.

"1999" by kevin a. gonzalez

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IN the Koran with strange delight

A peacock's feather met my sight:

Thou'rt welcome in this holy place,

The highest prize on earth's wide face!

As in the stars of heaven, in thee,

God's greatness in the small we see;

For he whose gaze whole worlds bath bless'd

His eye hath even here impress'd,

And the light down in beauty dress'd,

So that e'en monarchs cannot hope

In splendour with the bird to cope.

Meekly enjoy thy happy lot,

And so deserve that holy spot!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The tide rises, the tide falls,

The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;

Along the sea-sands damp and brown

The traveller hastens toward the town,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls,

But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls;

The little waves, with their soft, white hands,

Efface the footprints in the sands,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls

Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;

The day returns, but nevermore

Returns the traveller to the shore,

And the tide rises, the tide falls.

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For the original poster, when she comes back. My favourite poem.

CARMEN BVCOLICVM DE VIRTVTE SIGNI CRVCIS DOMINI

Aegon. Bvcolvs. Tityrvs.

Aegon - Qvidnam solivagvs Bvcole tristia

Demissis graviter lvminibvs gemis

Cvr manant lacrimis largiflvis genae

Fac vt norit amans tvi

Aegon: Why do you wander alone, Bucolus, sighing

miserably,

Your eyes downcast as if you felt weighed down?

Why do over-flowing tears stream down your cheeks?

Explain this to your friend.

Bvcolvs - Aegon qvaeso sinas alta silentia

Aegris me penitvs condere sensibvs

Nam vvlnvs reserat qvi mala pvblicat

Clavdit qvi tacitvm premit

Bucolus: Aegon, I beg you, let me bury myself

in deep silence, painful as my emotions are.

For the wound opens for him who publishes his evils

it closes for him who keeps silence.

Aegon - Contra est qvam loqveris recta nec avtvmas

Nam divisa minvs sarcina fit gravis

Et qvicqvid tegitvr saevivs incoqvit

Prodest sermo doloribvs

Aegon: The opposite of what you say is true; you do not assert

rightly.

For a burden shared becomes less heavy

But what is covered boils up more fiercely.

It helps to speak when one is sad.

[bvcolvs] - Scis Aegon gregibvs qvam fverim potens

Vt totis pecvdes flvminibvs vagae

Complerint etiam concava vallivm

Campos et ivga montivm

Nvnc lapsae penitvs spes et opes meae

Et longvs peperit qvae labor omnibvs

Vitae temporibvs perdita bidvo

Cvrsvs tam citvs est malis

[bucolus]: You know, Aegon, how large a flock I possessed,

And that my animals grazed beside every stream;

They filled even the hollow valleys,

The fields and the mountain ridges.

Now all my innermost hope and riches have failed

And all that my prolonged toil produced

throughout

A life-time has perished in two days.

So swiftly do evils advance.

Aegon - Haec iam dira lves serpere dicitvr

Pridem Pannonios Illyricos qvoqve

Et Belgas graviter stravit et impio

Cvrsv nos qvoqve nvnc petit

Sed tv qvi solitvs nosse salvbribvs

Svcis perniciem pellere noxiam

Cvr non anticipans qvae metvenda svnt

Admosti medicas manvs

Aegon: This dire plague is now spreading, it is said

First it caused the Pannonians, the Illyrians

and Belgians heavy destruction, and now

It is seeking us, too, in it's foul progress.

But you, who used to know of medicinal juices

Which could protect from harmful destruction,

Why do you not anticipate what is feared

By applying your healing hands?

Bvcolvs - Tanti nvlla metvs praevia signa svnt

Sed qvod corripit id morbvs et opprimit

Nec langvere sinit nec patitvr moras

Sic mors ante lvem venit

Plavstris svbdideram fortia corpora

Lectorvm stvdio qvo potvi bovm

Qveis mentis geminae consona tinnvlo

Concentv crepitacvla

Aetas consimilis saetaqve concolor

Mansvetvdo eadem robvr idem fvit

Et fatvm medio nam rvit aggere

Par victvm parili nece

Mollito penitvs farra dabam solo

Largis pvtris erat glaeba liqvoribvs

Svlcos perfacilis stiva tetenderat

Nvsqvam vomer inhaeserat

Laevvs bos svbito labitvr impetv

Aestas qvem domitvm viderat altera

Tristem continvo disivgo conivgem

Nil iam plvs metvens mali

Dicto sed citivs conseqvitvr necem

Semper qvi fverat sanvs et integer

Tvnc longis qvatiens ilia pvlsibvs

Victvm deposvit capvt

Bucolus: There is no warning sign for such terrors

What the disease attacks, it destroys.

It admits no lingering, allows no delay.

Thus death anticipates the plague.

To the wagons I had yoked my strong oxen,

Chosen as carefully as I could;

Both of them had like minds, and their bells tinkled together.

Both the same age, the same colour bristles,

They were both meek, both equally strong

And they had the same fate, for in mid-course

The pair of them collapsed in identical death.

I was sowing the seed deep in the softened earth;

The clods were crumbling after all the rain;

The plough moved easily through the furrows;

Nowhere did the ploughshare stick.

The ox on the left suddenly collapsed and fell;

It was only the second summer since he was broken.

At once I unyoked his grieving partner,

Fearing no further evil now.

But faster than one could say, death seized him

Although he had always been healthy before.

Now his sides jerked in prolonged spasms,

He lay down his head, all strength gone.

Aegon - Angor discrvcior maereo lvgeo

Damnis qvippe tvis non secvs ac meis

Pectvs conficitvr sed tamen arbitror

Salvos esse greges tibi

Aegon: I feel anguish and torment, sorrow and grief,

For my heart is shattered by your losses

As if they were my own; and yet I judge

Your herd is safe now?

Bvcolvs - Illvc tendo miser qvo gravor acrivs

Nam solamen erat vel minimvm mali

Si fetvra daret posterior mihi

Qvod praesens rapvit lves

Sed qvis vera pvtet progeniem qvoqve

Extinctam pariter Vidi ego cernvam

Ivnicem gravidam vidi animas dvas

Vno in corpore perditas

Hic fontis renvens graminis immemor

Errat svccidvo bvcvla poplite

Nec longvm refvgit sed graviter rvit

Leti compede clavdicans

At parte ex alia qvi vitvlvs modo

Lascivas saliens texverat vias

Vt matrem svbiit mox sibi morbido

Pestem traxit ab vbere

Mater tristifico vvlnere savcia

Vt vidit vitvli condita lvmina

Mvgitvs iterans ac misere gemens

Lapsa est et volvit mori

Tvnc tamqvam metvens ne sitis aridas

Favces opprimeret sic qvoqve dvm iacet

Admovit vbera mortvo

Post mortem pietas viget

Hinc tavrvs solidi vir gregis et pater

Cervicis validae frontis et ardvae

Laetvs dvm sibimet plvs nimio placet

Prato concidit herbido

Qvam mvltis follis silva cadentibvs

Nvdatvr gelidis tacta aqvilonibvs

Qvam densis flvitant velleribvs nives

Tam crebrae pecvdvm neces

Nvnc totvm tegitvr fvneribvs solvm

Inflantvr tvmidis corpora ventribvs

Albent lividvlis lvmina nvbibvs

Tenso crvra rigent pede

Iam circvm volitant agmina tristivm

Dirarvmqve avivm iamqve canvm greges

Insistvnt laceris visceribvs frvi

Hev cvr non etima meis

Bucolus: No, wretched as I am, the future had something far worse

for me.

For it would be some comfort in my trouble, if only

a little,

If I had had a subsequent litter to replace

What this present plague had taken.

But who would have believed it? The young animals,

too,

Were killed at the same time; I myself saw

The pregnant cow collapse; I saw two lives

Destroyed in one body.

Here wanders a heifer on wobbly legs,

Refusing to drink, neglecting the grass,

But she cannot get far for she is limping

And falls heavily, shackled by death.

Over there is a calf that just now

Was leaping and frolicking around,

Going to suckle his mother; but soon he sucks

The plague from the diseased udder.

When his saddened mother, wounded by this sorrowful pain,

Saw her calf closing his eyes in death,

She lowed repeatedly, groaning pitifully

And collapsed, wishing to die.

Then as if she feared that thirst with parched throat

Might choke the calf, while she lay there dying too,

She moved her udder to her calf that was already

dead.

Dutifulness remains strong even after death.

There is the bull, husband and the father of the healthy

herd,

With his strong neck and wide forehead;

He was happy and extremely proud of himself

But even he collapsed in the grassy meadow.

As many are the falling leaves of which the trees

are stripped when battered by the icy North wind,

As thickly as snow-flakes flutter in a blizzard,

So numerous are the cattle which have died.

Now the whole ground is covered with corpses,

Their bodies bloated, their bellies swollen,

Their eyes are white with livid patches,

Their legs stiff, their feet stretched out.

Already woeful flocks of birds, grim vultures,

are hovering; already packs of dogs

Press round to tear the entrails and feed on them.

Alas! Why not on mine also?

Aegon - Qvidnam qvaeso qvid est qvod vario modo

Fatvm triste necis transilit alteros

Affligitqve alios en tibi Tityrvs

Salvo laetvs agit grege

Aegon: Why, I ask you, why is it that death's sad fate

Is so inconsistent, passing over some

But striking others? Look at Tityrus,

Happily driving his healthy flock.

Bvcolvs - Ipsvm contveor dic age Tityre

Qvis te svbripvit cladibvs his devs

Vt pestis pecvdvm qvae popvlata sit

Vicinos tibi nvlla sit

Bucolus: I see him now. Come, tell us Tityrus,

Which god has saved you from these disasters,

So that the plague that ravaged your neighbours'

flocks

Has not affected yours at all?

Tityrvs - Signvm qvod perhibent esse Crvcis Dei

Magnis qvi colitvr solvs in vrbibvs

Christvs perpetvi gloria nvminis

Cvivs filivs vnicvs

Hoc Signvm mediis frontibvs additvm

Cvnctarvm pecvdvm certa salvs fvit

Sic vero Devs hoc nomine praepotens

Salvator vocitatvs est

Fvgit continvo saeva lves greges

Morbis nil licvit si tamen hvnc Devm

Exorare velis credere svfficit

Votvm sola fides ivvat

Non vllis madida est ara crvoribvs

Nec morbvs pecvdvm caede repellitvr

Sed simplex animi pvrificatio

Optatis frvitvr bonis

Tityrus: The Sign which they testify to be the Cross of God

Who Alone is worshiped in the large cities,

Christ, the Glory of the Eternal Godhead

Whose only Son He is,

This Sign, marked in the middle of the forehead,

was all my cattles' certain salvation.

And thus this powerful God

is called Savior.

The raging plague directly fled from the herds.

The epidemic lost it's strength. But if you wish

To pray to this God - to believe is sufficient.

Faith alones aids your prayer.

His altar is not wet with bloody sacrifice,

No slaughter of cattle averts disease,

But simplicity and purity of soul

Obtain the desired goods.

Bvcolvs - Haec si certa probas Tityre nil morer

Qvin veris famvler religionibvs

Errorem veterem defvgiam libens

Nam fallax et inanis est

Bucolus: If you have proven this for certain, Tityrus, I will without

delay

Begin to perform the rites of the True Faith.

I will flee happily from the old error,

For it is false and useless.

Tityrvs - Atqvi iam properat mens mea visere

Svmmi templa templa Dei Qvin age Bvcole

Non longam pariter congredimvr viam

Christi et nvmina noscimvs

Tityrus: Already my mind is eager to hurry and visit

The Temple of the All Powerful God; come, Bucolus,

Let us go together - the way is not far -

And acknowledge Christ's Divinity.

Aegon - Et me consilis ivngite prosperis

Nam cvr addvbitem qvin homini qvoqve

Signvm prosit idem perpete saecvlo

Qvo vis morbida vincitvr

Aegon: Let me join you in your happy plan.

For how could I doubt that mankind, too,

Will forever benefit from this Sign

Which conquered the power of death.

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"For every ailment under the sun

There is a remedy, or there is none;

If there be one, try to find it;

If there be none, never mind it."

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^ That's more like a rhyme than a poem!

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I wandered lonely as a cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed---and gazed---but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

By William Wordsworth

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buuump

Men at Forty

Donald Justice (b. 1925)

Men at forty

Learn to close softly

The doors to rooms they will not be

Coming back to.

At rest on a stair landing,

They feel it

Moving beneath them now like the deck of a ship,

Though the swell is gentle.

And deep in mirrors

The rediscover

The face of the boy as he practices trying

His father’s tie there in secret

And the face of that father,

Still warm with the mystery of lather.

They are more fathers than sons themselves now.

Something is filling them, something

That is like the twilight sound

Of the crickets, immense,

Filling the woods at the foot of the slope

Behind their mortgaged houses.

1967

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IF you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Edited by Rational Thinking
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This poem was mentioned by a dear friend, who is no longer on Shiachat.

"A little learning is a dang'rous thing;

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:

There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,

And drinking largely sobers us again.

Fir'd at first sight with what the Muse imparts,

In fearless youth we tempt the heights of Arts,

While from the bounded level of our mind

Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind;

But more advanc'd, behold with strange surprise

New distant scenes of endless science rise!

So pleas'd at first the towering Alps we try,

Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky,

Th' eternal snows appear already past,

And the first clouds and mountains seem the last;

But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey

The growing labours of the lengthen'd way,

Th' increasing prospects tire our wand'ring eyes,

Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise!"

Alexander Pope

Edited by InfiniteAscension
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This poem was mentioned by a dear friend, who is no longer on Shiachat.

Was it me? Was I the one who mentioned it?

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Rajaz of Hazrat Abbas. Shakespear has nothing on Agha Abalfazl :D

إني أنا العباس

It is I, al-abbās

اقاتل القوم بقلب مهند

I fight the [opposing] people with a heart of steel (stern heart)

أذب عن سبط النبي أحمد

I defend the grandson of the Prophet Ahmad

أضربكم بالصارم المهند

I strike you with the sharp/hard [sword] of steel

حتى تحيدوا عن قتال سيدي

Until you abandon fighting my master

إني أنا العباس ذا التودد

I am Abbas, the affectionate

نجل علي المرتضى المؤيد

The son of Ali al-Mourtada, the [divinely] supported

لا أرهب الموت إذا الموت زقا

I do not fear death if death approaches me

حتى أوراي ميتا عند اللقاء

So that I bury [the enemy] dead at the moment of meeting [for battle]

نفسي لنفس الطاهر الطهر وقاء

My self (soul) is a shield for the pure soul (i.e. the Imam)

إني صبور شاكر في الملتقى

I am patient and grateful [to God] at the time of meeting

إني أنا العباس صعب في اللقاء

I am al-Abbas, headstrong at the meeting [of battle]

نفس لنفسي الطاهر السبط وقاء

My self (soul) is a shield for the pure grandson [of the Prophet]

والله ان قطعتموا يميني

By God! if you amputate my right [hand]

اني احامي ابدا عن ديني

I will [remain] eternally protecting my religion

وعن امام صادق اليقين

and [protecting] an Imām of truthful certitude [in faith]

سبط النبي الطاهي الأمين

The grandson of the pure and trustworthy Prophet

نبي صدق جاءنا بالدين

A prophet of truth who brought us the religion

مصدقا بالواحد الامين

[And] who has belief in the One and Trustworthy

يا نفس من بعد الحسين هوني

O Soul, after al-Husayn you have no importance

وبعده لا كنت أو تكوني

and after him, neither you [are worthy] to have existed or remain existing

هذا الحسين شارب المنون

This is Husayn, drinking [from the spring] of death

وتشربين بارد المعين

And you [dare to] drink from the cold water ?!

هيهات ما هذا فعال ديني

Never! [for] this is not from the acts of my religion

ولا فعال صادق اليقيني

Nor the action of a person of true certitude [in faith]

يا نفس لا تخشي من الكفار

O Self, do not fear the infidels

وابشري برحمة الجبار

And be glad [to receive] the Mercy of the Almighty

مع النبي سيد الابرار

With the Prophet, the master of righteous [ones]

مع جملة السادات والاطهار

Along with the masters and pure ones

قد قطعوا ببغيهم يساري

They have amputated my left [arm] with their tyranny/evilness

فاصلهم يا رب حر النار

So burn them, O Lord, with the heat of fire

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Beginning with 1914

By Lisel Mueller

Since it always begins

in the unlikeliest place

we start in an obsolete country

on no current map. The camera

glides over flower beds,

for this is a southern climate.

We focus on medals, a horse,

on a white uniform,

for this is June. The young man

waves to the people lining the road,

he lifts a child, he catches

a rose from a wrinkled woman

in a blue kerchief. Then we hear shots

and close in on a casket

draped in the Austrian flag.

Thirty-one days torn off a calendar.

Bombs on Belgrade; then Europe explodes.

We watch the trenches fill with men,

the air with live ammunition.

A close-up of a five-year-old

living on turnips. Her older sister,

my not-yet-mother, already

wearing my daughter’s eyes,

is reading a letter as we cut

to a young man with thick glasses

who lies in a trench and writes

a study of Ibsen. I recognize him,

he is going to be my father,

and this is his way of keeping alive.

Snow. Blood. Lice. Frostbite.

Grenades. Stretchers. Coffins. Snow.

Telegrams with black borders.

On the wide screen my father returns

bringing his brother’s body;

my mother’s father brings back his son’s

from the opposite edge. They come together

under the oaks of the cemetery.

All who will be my family

are here, except my sister,

who is not yet imagined.

Neither am I, who imagine

this picture, who now jump

to my snowy birthday in the year

of the million-mark loaf of bread.

My early years are played

by a blue-eyed child who grows up

quickly, for this is a film

of highlights, like all documentaries

false to the life—the work

of selective memory, all I can bear

of a painful childhood. The swastika

appears and remains as the huge

backdrop against which we’re seen.

The sound track of a hysterical voice

is threatening us. We’re heard as whispers.

Shortly before my city

bursts into flames, my stand-in

disappears from the film, which continues

with scenes of terror and death

I can’t bear to watch. I pick up

a new reel, a strange sequel

set in a different location

and made in another language,

in which I am back. The colors are bright,

the sound track is filled with music,

the focus gentle. A man is beside me.

Time-lapse photography picks up

the inchmeal growth of daughters

toward the sky, the slow subversion

of dark by gray hair. Little happens.

The camera sums up the even flow

of many years in a shot of a river.

The principals from part one

are missing, except for me

who am the connection. The time is now,

and I am playing myself.

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hello!

Can any Farsi speakers help me? I am in desperate need of your help! My iranian heritage best friend is getting married at the end of March. As a wedding present i am having a piece of art work made for her, with a quote by Rumi (her favourite poet).

The quote is "Only from the heart can you touch the sky". An iranian heritage friend (but born in the UK) has translated it for me as:

از دل میتونی به آسمان‌ها برسید

However the artist creating the artwork has written it backwards like this:

برسید‌ها آسمان میتونی دل از

The artist is Pakistani and does not speak Farsi, but he is insisting that his version is correct!

Please can you tell me which is right asap?

I am really sorry if i have posted this in the wrong thread. I am a bit desperate for an answer as the artist needs to complete the work before Friday. Thank you so so much for your help, it is greatly appreciated!

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This was in my signature til the lads in charge removed it:

So amazing. I love my Imam!

Bro this is amazing! Thanks for sharing.

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hello!

Can any Farsi speakers help me? I am in desperate need of your help! My iranian heritage best friend is getting married at the end of March. As a wedding present i am having a piece of art work made for her, with a quote by Rumi (her favourite poet).

The quote is "Only from the heart can you touch the sky". An iranian heritage friend (but born in the UK) has translated it for me as:

از دل میتونی به آسمان‌ها برسید

However the artist creating the artwork has written it backwards like this:

برسید‌ها آسمان میتونی دل از

The artist is Pakistani and does not speak Farsi, but he is insisting that his version is correct!

Please can you tell me which is right asap?

I am really sorry if i have posted this in the wrong thread. I am a bit desperate for an answer as the artist needs to complete the work before Friday. Thank you so so much for your help, it is greatly appreciated!

از دل میتونی به آسمان‌ها برسید

Means: Only through the heart can you reach the heavens

The backwords one doesnt make any sense.....lol

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That's what i thought too, thank you so much for your help, i really appreciate it! I thought my friend was right, but the artist was so insistent he was starting to make me question who was correct. Its really reassuring to know that me and my friend were right all along! Thanks again, very best wishes to you

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A small poem by Nizar Qabbani translated thus:

Language

When a man is in love

How can he use old words?

Should a woman

desiring her lover

lie down with

grammarians and linguists?

I said nothing

To the woman I loved

But gathered

Love's adjectives into the suitcase

And fled from all languages.

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This one is also attributed to Imam Ali, very beautiful, perhaps even better in Arabic:

Your sickness is within you, though you do not realize

And your cure is within, yet you do not see

You claim that you are nothing but a tiny entity

Yet wrapped up inside of you is the greatest universe

You are the clear book, through whose letters

All that is secret is revealed and made known.

So you have no need for anything outside of you

Your consciousness is within you, though you do not know

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A poem from Sheikh Ayyaz translated from Sindhi thus:

The Dancing Flames

Don't ask for their price, O dictator

You will never be able to pay for my songs!

Your threshold is filled today

With the noise if those who come begging,

Asking for favours

And they who were worth a few pennies

Have been paid in gold and silver

Literature and art have become a bazaar of salves

Where naked bodies display their charms,

In your land of cash and coins

What is the value of a poet? Nothing!

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Thought I'd rekindle the poetry forum, and share my favourite poem with you guys. In return, share yours and tell us why.

 

A poem I liked from the collection I am currently reading.

 

The poet's longing for his homeland and how he feels it when he gets a postcard from home.

 

 

Postcard from Kashmir

Kashmir shrinks into my mailbox,

my home a near four by six inches.

I always loved neatness. Now I hold

the half-inch Himalayas in my hand.

This is home. And this is the closest

I'll ever be to home. When I return,

the colors wn't be so brilliant.

the Jhelum's waters so clean,

so ultramarine. My love

so overexposed.

 

And my memory will be a little

out of focus, in it

a giant negative, black

and white, still undeveloped.

 

 

__Agha Shahid Ali

PS: Where are you, Blissful?

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