What need have I for a gaze like wine,
That shows me but shadows, and grants no sign?
What worth is an eye that weaves its tales,
Yet Your veiled beauty, it fails to define?

What use are the forms that drown in the night,
If love does not seek them, nor hearts ignite?
They are but illusions — fleeting and dim,
Songs of mirage, not passion’s true hymn.

Your face — the last veil of all that is hidden,
A whisper of light, yet never unbidden.
So I lowered my gaze, though vision is mine,
Not out of blindness, nor ailment’s sign.

But a shape of hope it has now become,
That even in darkness, Your light has come.
If You choose to appear, let it be through the shade,
Where hearts are lit, and the soul is remade.

These eyes are not fit to behold You unveiled,
But the soul sings of You — in silence, it wailed.
You are a flame that cannot be tamed,
No string of the soul by You is claimed.

A light too distant for eyes to attain,
Yet hearts that are kindled may catch its flame.
And if my heart glows with Your gentle grace,
Then seeing You not — still leaves no trace.

I do not want this seeing
that only drinks reflections.

I do not want this sight
that drowns me in images
while Your Face remains
forever just beyond
the final veil.

So I close my eyes.
Not out of blindness,
but hope—
that in the dark,
You may burn through.

And what a fire You are—
that the soul, not the eye,
must carry the light
to truly see You.

I am but dust in colourful silken dress,
Yet I was sent to heal, to touch and to bless.
Where words divide and swords increase —
Let fragrance speak the song of peace.

In gardens torn by human pride,
I bloom where peace and hope have died.
And if you breathe me, still and deep,
My scent shall wake what hate would keep.

So lay your weapons, hush your tongue —
The world is old, but love is young.
And through the quiet, let me be
A rose of peace for all to see.

Ishq Jab ** Khushboo Se Pur,
To Zarra Ban Jaaye Ayeenah-e-Noor.

Na Jaam Chahiye, Na Mai Ka Sabab,
Gul Hi Hai Raaz — Aur Nasha Hai Adab.

For love, when laced in scent so pure,
Turns even dust to light’s allure.

No wine, no glass, no tavern wall—
The rose alone can make one fall.

So let the lovers understand:
The wasp that kissed her thorned hand,
Did not return the way he came—
He left his name, and bore her flame.

An eye awoke; the cosmos caught aflame,
Glowing stars gathered—each none quite the same.
Her eyes, like sparks, called him by tender names,
And in that gaze, the night shed all its claims.

The moon chased from every direction,
Lost in orbit of her sweet affection.
No silver light could dare compete,
With the fire that made his heart complete.

O’ Jamil! Arise, arise! The dawn awaits your flame,
Not as a flicker, faint and frail, but a sun none can tame.
Yet haste is the foe of wisdom, the traitor of the soul,
For destinies are not cast in haste, but forged in measured coal.
The mountains bow to none but those who climb with patient feet,
The ocean’s depth is not revealed by waves that blindly beat.
The pen that writes eternal tales moves with a sovereign will,
O’ Jamil, become part of the story, and be written slowly still.

Not by the fleeting breath of time, nor by the tempest’s roar,
But by the silent hand that shapes the clay to something more.
The rose that claims its bloom at once is robbed of sacred pride,
The sun ascends the eastern sky, but only with the tide.

In every heart the latent spark awaits the perfect hour,
To blaze a path through endless night with majesty and power.
But power without patience is but ash upon the breeze —
O’ Jamil! Be steadfast, walk with grace, and bend your will with ease.

Yet know — the flame that softly glows may set the world ablaze,
The gentle seed that falls in soil can birth eternal days.
No storm nor lightning need you chase; within, a sun resides,
A fearless light, a boundless charm, the Self that never hides.

So sing! Sing loud, O’ beautiful, with courage and delight —
Each step a dance upon the stars, each breath a burning light.
Write not in haste, but with a smile, the story you fulfil —
O’ Jamil, become part of the story, and be written slowly still.

A shadow slipped through the silence of my soul — the memory of a thief who once stole more than gold.