What fury seizes me when fools hold sway,
When blunted minds preside and none protest,
When those who cannot see presume to say
Which path we take, and put our work to test.
I bite my tongue until the iron taste
Of silence bleeds — yet still I must defer
To those whose stewardship is nought but waste,
Whose word is law, whose vision is a blur.
Yet who am I to rail against the night?
I search my anger and am shamed to find
That pride, not justice, kindles all this light —
’Tis vanity that so inflames my mind.
The fault I name in others is my own:
A king of self, upon a rented throne.
#919 On Vanity’s Reign
Rage burns, unrestrained —
years of work upon my soul,
yet pride unmade me.
I knew the better
path, and chose the lesser one:
ego, not wisdom.
Still waters beneath —
what shame, that I let the flood
speak before my soul.
#915 On The Entrepreneurs
How bold the ones who conjure things from air,
Who stake their sleep and savings on a dream,
Who hire the hands to realise what they dare
And lift from nothing some audacious scheme.
I watched them move and marvelled at the sight,
Astonished at their chutzpah and their nerve —
To risk what comfort asks us to repay,
To bend the possible beyond its curve.
I know my blood runs cooler, and my heart
Inclines to patience, to the page, and thought;
I lack the gambler’s gift, the founder’s art,
The fire that will not rest till something’s wrought.
Yet I shall cheer the builders from my post,
And feed with quiet hands what I love most.
#912 On The Road Chosen
The road I chose — where
did it quietly become
someone else’s life?
#911 On What Went Wrong
I watched another take a seat I craved,
And asked what flaw had dimmed my early light —
What forfeit left my gold so long engraved
With someone else’s name, some other’s right.
Was merit not enough, or did I stray
At some unmarked and unreturning turn?
The years grow short; what youth had meant to say
Now smoulders where ambition used to burn.
And yet to rage against the shape of things
Is but to break oneself upon the wheel —
Perhaps each life is measured not by rings
Of office, but by what the quiet feel.
What went wrong? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps all
Was always tending toward a different call.
#906 On Tiredness and the Moral Self
The day has wrung me hollow, dry, and spent,
Yet still I press against the fading light,
While Junayd’s words pursue me where I went:
This dunya’s tribulations are our right.
Around me, souls rush headlong, chasing still
The gilded noise of this world’s passing show,
While I am worn by some ungrasped goodwill,
A gentler self I ache to come to know.
To purge the arrogance that clouds my sight,
To love more truly, humbly, than before —
Such is the labour of the moral night,
The quiet war no battlefield makes sure.
Today I am discouraged, tired, worn —
Yet from such soil is moral goodness born.
#903 On The Weariness of Becoming
The day gave oxygen, my spirit soared,
I thrived amongst the crowd, alive, awake —
Then came the evening, emptied and ignored,
Too drained to think, too spent for thinking’s sake.
I am a creature made for voices, rooms,
For human warmth and questions, give and take —
Yet every dawn some other sorrow looms,
And every choice another self must break.
The future calls across an unknown sea,
The weekend beckons like a distant shore;
My very human fears I cannot flee,
Though grace and equanimity I swore.
Between the man I am and what’s to be,
The miles of tiredness stretch — and still, I see.
#900 Tentang Alunan Alam
Perlahankanlah langkahmu
Ambil nafas dalam, satu persatu:
Dunia akan terus berputar ligat
Meski engkau asyik menaruh keringat
Usah terlalu terburu-buru
Kerna setiap satu alunan alam ini
Berjalan mengikut takdir Ilahi
Walau betapa kau berhempas pulas
Walau seberapa kau berlari pantas
Tuturan Tuhan takkan pernah lari
Mulianya manusia datang dari kesedaran
Bahwa alam dunia bergerak atas aturan
Tuhan.
#891 On The Bile of Unbelievable Grief
In our cups, the consolation of the inconsolable
The unbelievable nature of upbraidings:
The game of conveying blame is rarely benign
And so in our cups,
We raise a toast for the ghost of leadership past
Intoning names of former chiefs and comrades
For we are like armour cleansed of ardour
Marked with the grime of disappointments
We tip our cups in common disbelief
A prayer against the bile of fetid grief.
#873 Tentang Perasaan Rimas dan Malas
Rimas!
Otak berlengas
Kepala keras
Tak cukup tangkas?
Bodoh!
Terlebih riuh
Kerja gelojoh
Terlampau angkuh?
Malas!
Biarlah lepas
Ku mau bebas
Laksana unggas...