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#rubaiyat
هر موج نگاه و خنده ها زیبا است از یار سخن لب شفا زیبا است ای دوست چه عجب که بیوفا زیبا است این عشق و حال مبتلا زیبا است
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Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 9:02 AM UTC
Farsi Rubai (with translation)
Rubaiyat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 7 BismillahIr Rahman Raheem Oh E’ilahi’ (Creator most loved one) (Mehboob E ilahi) You are the creator most loved one (Mehboob E ilahi) There is a veil in between you and me, You are the order, and you are the noble saint, I am not worthy, to see you through the veil, Maybe little glimpse You and me, from behind the veil, let me learn the order from you Oh E’ilahi’ The Order about Our Beloved, and His love, May I am not worthy, for any of these, But From You, Oh E’ilahi there is an enlightened lamp (Chirag Dehlavi) and Altruistic (Bande Nawaz) So I came, in your presence with the utmost respect, beneath your feet as your dust, Allow me to learn, Tonight, is the gathering of loved ones, let me sit beside the veil, Let me fade in silence, and watch the gathering, I Ummah Thurab, not worthy for this knowledge, except remain as dust’ beneath the sky and your feet! Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
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Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:45 AM UTC
Rubaiyat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 7
**I. Eyes taking survey of immediate surroundings. Habitable? Yes. Presentable? No. At least not to anyone lacking the neuroses which with such resplendent ecology were given perennial bloom in the mental landscape of this peculiar creature. . .   Dwelling, as he does within plaster walls upon concrete floors beneath fluorescent lights, as they quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate filth and fur amassed in quantities sufficient to reconstruct entire animals, and perhaps even ecosystems... Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated Musical implements, instructions, and instruments supinely littered, almost as profusely as the mountains of literature courting avalanche from the rigid repose of each supportive surface where they rest Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but at least they keep the bugs out... Records in crates and stacks with no particular organization. Hmm. That last line sums it succinctly. "No particular organization." Yet he still unaccountably knows within this squalor where the minutest of objects reside His thoughts and actions are sporadic, leaving linearity in want of apt expression For him, it seems the shortest path between two points is a frenetic scribble Getting things done in a timely manner? Possibly. Getting sidetracked and forgetting the original plan? Probab-  *HEY                                                          DID                                                   YOU                                                          GUYS*                                                   *SEE                                                                    THAT?!?!?!?!*   II.                                 And                       "Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!" Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell. Erelong might this assertion be dispelled                  With them and their opinion. . . . .                 STRAIGHT TO HELL! For now the music of Debussy fills the air,   and now this vagabond has found a locus   a flag and bond of jouissance and care   arresting him  in implacable focus Inhaling the aroma of the night   he raises up his quill with great delight   and sets the implement in fervent motion   and bathing in the passions it ignites He yields to it in rapturous devotion   and as if under spell or magic potion   his brain and nerves and muscles all engage   in spilling forth the fury of an ocean Society has trapped him in a cage   ensnared him in frivolity, it seems   but his ink abounds in freedom on its page   and guides him to tranquility from rage   As Luna pours her iridescent beams   into this weary poet's dreary head   his mind illuminates with fate's esteem   and ruminates through labyrinths of dream As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said   becomes a tapestry of order, woven   with chaos as the impetus that's led   this blessed magnanimity has shed A light to guide the way; a path to show him   to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden   who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen: "Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."   Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him! III. "If a cluttered desk", a man once asked, "Is a sign of a cluttered mind?" "Of what, then," he continued, "is an empty desk a sign?"
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Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 5:29 AM UTC
Still Life of a Mind in Chaotic Order (Rough)
**I. Eyes taking survey of immediate surroundings. Habitable? Yes. Presentable? No. At least not to anyone lacking the neuroses which with such resplendent ecology were given perennial bloom in the mental landscape of this peculiar creature. . .   Dwelling, as he does within plaster walls upon concrete floors beneath fluorescent lights, as they quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate filth and fur amassed in quantities sufficient to reconstruct entire animals, and perhaps even ecosystems... Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated Musical implements, instructions, and instruments supinely littered, almost as profusely as the mountains of literature courting avalanche from the rigid repose of each supportive surface where they rest Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but at least they keep the bugs out... Records in crates and stacks with no particular organization. Hmm. That last line sums it succinctly. "No particular organization." Yet he still unaccountably knows within this squalor where the minutest of objects reside His thoughts and actions are sporadic, leaving linearity in want of apt expression For him, it seems the shortest path between two points is a frenetic scribble Getting things done in a timely manner? Possibly. Getting sidetracked and forgetting the original plan? Probab-  *HEY                                                          DID                                                   YOU                                                          GUYS*                                                   *SEE                                                                    THAT?!?!?!?!*   II.                                 And                       "Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!" Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell. Erelong might this assertion be dispelled                  With them and their opinion. . . . .                 STRAIGHT TO HELL! For now the music of Debussy fills the air,   and now this vagabond has found a locus   a flag and bond of jouissance and care   arresting him  in implacable focus Inhaling the aroma of the night   he raises up his quill with great delight   and sets the implement in fervent motion   and bathing in the passions it ignites He yields to it in rapturous devotion   and as if under spell or magic potion   his brain and nerves and muscles all engage   in spilling forth the fury of an ocean Society has trapped him in a cage   ensnared him in frivolity, it seems   but his ink abounds in freedom on its page   and guides him to tranquility from rage   As Luna pours her iridescent beams   into this weary poet's dreary head   his mind illuminates with fate's esteem   and ruminates through labyrinths of dream As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said   becomes a tapestry of order, woven   with chaos as the impetus that's led   this blessed magnanimity has shed A light to guide the way; a path to show him   to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden   who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen: "Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."   Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him! III. "If a cluttered desk", a man once asked, "Is a sign of a cluttered mind?" "Of what, then," he continued, "is an empty desk a sign?"
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Rubaiyat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 8 BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem The heaven and earth decorated on this noble month. (Rabi’ al-Thani) Your feet are blessed, for every guardian, and to this world, Blossoms flourish in your love even in a dry land, Oh Jilani, all guardians, gathered to welcomes you, As you are the king’ to entire guardians, Everyone welcomes you with utmost respect. As your are Jilani, my Loved and a respectful Friend, Let me, hold your noble feet in my heart and walk on this earth. As dust, of your noble feet’ Oh my Jilani! Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
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Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 4:47 AM UTC
Rubaiyat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 8
The cracked and umber, cyan, lichened bark, its wintry deprivation echoes stark impoverishment: the denizens live their neglected, leafless lives, in Highgate Park. The winter icy earth’s, anaemic fare, enough for hungry birds and squirrels, there is insufficient food for bigger beasts, who huddle, famished, in the frosty air. A grassland’s faded, green, uncut, now greets all walkers down its dwindled concrete streets, replacement for old honeyed flags: new flaws displacing golden pathways, lined with seats. The squirrel, hungry in the cold still gnaws her nuts: she holds the winter food in claws, and quickly looks for danger, then a pause, and runs, avoiding snapping canine jaws
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Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
Highgate Park (rubaiyat)
By: The-Drifter-From-Heaven The Isolation ground the flesh from my bone, It feels like my body is drag in rough stone, Feels like a controlled suffocation of pain, My lungs tried to scream— yet I can't even moan. This silence is no longer peace, but a chain, That even my weary soul begins to drain, This loneliness has caused my whole heart to rot, Leaving me praying, in solitary vain. Now I feel my wind pipe is crushed, tied in knot, It felt the whole world planned and lay down this plot, A dark vision I was born trap and alone, My gift is—I was born with mind fully blot.
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Apr 16
Apr 16, 2026 at 6:41 AM UTC
Stained from the Start