Why Ask

Why ask about the condition of fakirs like us? We are water, separated from its river, Emerged from a tear, Melancholy, distressed. Of course I knew that a painting is just A whimsy of colors- But when I entered the emporium of love, I paid a price. Countless bodies did I find, But not one mind did I meet. This was written in my fate, In the four lines of my palm. My destiny was my rival. I could never find a way to escape it. I did not leave Jhang, I did not pierce my ears, And a crowd of Heers crossed my path. People listen to my songs, But call me a heretic, Because I named pain my kaaba, And sorrow, my god. On occasion, in gatherings of great people I have spoken sharply. Perhaps I was arrogant about my love, Perhaps I felt I had a claim upon pain. You call yourself a wise man, I say I am a lover. Let us leave it to the people to decide To whom they will give the esteem of a pir.