I’m communing with God; to His will I’m resigned.”
They still insisted: “Vazīr, that we’ll not deny,
But our remonstrance is a truly piteous cry.
We weep our eyes out through our grief thee not to see,
With sighs our hearts burst, vainly looking out for thee.
An infant quarrels not with its attentive nurse;
And yet it weeps, through knowing not what’s good from worse.
We are thy harps. The plectrum’s stroke is from thy hand.
’Tis thus we moan; smit by thy cunning harpist wand.285
Like flutes of reed, our utterances are through thee found;