THE TREE (Generations of Mystics Died Down) / Poem by Ayub Khawar

Poem by Ayub Khawar



(Generations of Mystics Died Down)

O! Reverend Banyan,
Beneath your roots,
From which abyssal the glow of
Spiritual moist you soaked,
To fill the green vacuum of your veins,
Your shadow, in every season,
Used to be cool as motherhood,
A strange mystery resided,
In your bulky extended branches,
There was a peculiar wind,
That used to wrap itself,
In the branches filled with sap
And the morning always opened her eyes,
In your oscillating lap.

In the silence of noon,
That peculiar wind,
Swinging with your hanging roots,
Fastened with arms of your thick branches
It joshed the lake clinging around your ankles,
And humming the gray silence of evening
Used to grant a mystical spell,
To your dark green leaves,
Spotted with yellow flecks,
Such a spell that had a secret link,
Between grief and bliss,

In the drack nights,
The moon and stars used to sit in the lap of your roots,
Seeking links between grief and bliss,
Until the next dawn.

What kind of lure had your umbrella-like branches?
That saints and mystics of all religions,
Squatted around your stem of enlightenment,
And quenched their hearts and souls,
With the natal-drinks of negation and self-realization,
They cleaned,
And whitened more and more their inner-selves,
They scratched the skin of falsehood,
By tasting essence of the truth: immaculate and modest,
They took terrestrial fragrance,
And peeped through the sieve of sky,
Twinkling mysteries circled them,
With the ring of light,
In this ring every glowing moment had several centuries.

O! Reverend Banyan,
Where did those centuries turned to ashes?
That were filled with blue, green and yellow lights,
Of your existence,
And why have the generations,
Of those mystics and saints vanished?

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