FICTION
By Allama Iqbāl
"Why didn't you make me immortal?"
Beauty asked God, perplexed.
God, vexed, said "The world is a fiction
fashioned from emptiness.
You were born bright, ever-changing:
true beauty is transient, estranging."
The moon overheard their discord,
beamed it on to the morning star
who whispered dawn's clouds their dark secret
till the dew heard it all, formed a tear,
and drenched all the shivering rose petals
(now survived by the hardier nettles).
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