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Music is the sound that veils the visible and reveals the hidden;
Takes black muck and builds with it a minaret;

Spreads a shawl of atlas, of malmal on the grave,
And puts in the hands of man for a moment, life and death.

But death blinds you, unaware of man’s fall –
An autumn that steals the flower from the flower peddler.

Death is testimony of god’s love and mercy for man –
A promise made between autumn and spring.

Life is a drop of love, and it relishes love;
Takes black muck and builds with it a minaret

Music is the thorn of youth, a tale of battling death;
It is a tale of man’s honed sword and musket

A tale of the slave’s pride, of the grave, and dignity;
Not of moth and candle, it’s the tale of moth and star.

What is man’s life but love, love of self;
Man is dust, dust as his passion, dust as the beloved.

Death, it is your great act of piety for man –
You take him to your house or he’d be left to himself

Death is a covenant between the lover and the beloved;
Death is a secret wedlock between being and non-being.

Death harbors the hidden port of life’s ocean;
Death is helpless and a vision of beauty to itself.

Death is the only witness of my life and your grace,
And O strange lord, of night and the crescent.


Translated from Pashto by Taimur Khan

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