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My power of making music

My power of making music
Has been of no avail;
I am unlucky still;
Thou art still unmoved.

Is this a world of mine,
Or a magic of Thy art?
Is this the world’ of the body,
Or the world of the soul?

My days and nights are tossed.
In a storm of confusion,
In the yearnings of a Rumi,
Or the bewilderment of a Razi.

What doth the eaglet know,
Seduced by wolves and ravens,
About the eagle’s vision,
About its ethereal flights?

A lyrical strain this is not,
And I know not the the strain;
I seek sounds melodious,
Be they Arab or Persian.

Thin partitions divide
A pious man and a king;
One has a seer’s power,
The other has power of the sword.

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