A poem from Bulleh Shah, written in the 18th century, and my attempt at translating it in English. First the
Every day is the first day of the interim phase before the next day, followed by rest of your life.
A clay pot was smashed on a wall, its particles flying in all directions, some big, some small and some
Three and a half hours from here An unseen idyllic oasis, abundant with rare Leaning away from the feigning, lavishing,
Musarrat Nazir very old song; hauntingly beautiful poetry
They were not lost; they were just running around for fun. No wait, they were not running around for fun.