The poet, whose state is no better than an uprooted tent, admits his foolish lines are of no worth for the wise ones
My Wine’s Still From Madina’s Grapevine
Last night an argument / Unfolded at the tavern / Their faces away turned / As they made anger plain
Forget It
The Beloved’s absence kills Inch by inch and the soul suffers bit by bit, writes Mujeeb Jaihoon
Sweet Seller in Paradise
Each action of Beloved is to be imitated / No doubt for him was this world created / The gardens became fragrant from his scent / Water got no-color tint from his matchless paint