The Wind: An Extreme Instance

What is the wind? -a flow in many forms, 

What the bards have call'd thee

All are their melodious evergreen songs, 

As a philocalist I see the wind in me.

Wind, a divine secret agent of the almighty, 

Invisibly roaming over seas, soils and nature

For tidings of the colourful world slightly, 

And the deeds, white and black of the creatures.

Wind, a messanger, takes the messages fairly

Of innumerable flowers' fragrances, 

Sweetness of fruits, melodies of bird-songs, tastes of poetry, 

And to the peasants love of animals' disturbances.

Wind, a bondage of love and peace

Amongst the diverse hearts of its creatures, 

And for a painter, wind is a moving picture

Of far-fatch'd fields, blue skies and solitary seas.

Wind, a wander'r rolling up the fallen leaves

With her into the spelly paths making sound, 

A Sufi singer; the song of herself can be listen'd

In a loud silence all around.

Wind, a great saviour, a transparent shelter, 

Creatures, all the three, are under her absent presence, 

They find haven in heaven of the lady defender, 

The wind is wind, an extreme instance.