Rumi’s words kindled a fire in my heart. Alas for Panjab, that precious land!

Even in Paradise I burned with the fever of my friends, and knew again my ancient griefs.

Until in that bower a sorrowful voice rose up from the banks of the stream Kauthar:

‘I gathered a handful of straw to set myself on fire; the rose supposes that I would build a nest in the garden.’

Rumi said, ‘Observe what is now coming; give not your heart to what has passed, my son.

That poet of colourful song, Tahir Ghani, whose poverty abounds in riches inward and outward,

Drunk with eternal wine, is chanting a melody in the presence of the Sayyid sublime,

Noble of nobles, commander of Persia, whose hand is the architect of the destiny of nations.

Ghazali himself learned the lesson of God is He and drew meditation and thought from his stock.

Guide he of that emerald land, counsellor of prince and dervish and sultan;

A king ocean-munificent, to that vale he gave science, crafts, education, religion.

That man created a miniature Iran with rare and heart-ravishing arts;

With one glance he unravels a hundred knots – rise, and let his arrow transfix your heart.’