Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: We shall make a hall of mirrors of the thwarted heart

We shall make a hall of mirrors of the thwarted heart:
we shall turn towards ourselves the face of the heart's ease.

From evening to morning the round of wine is ending at last:
we weep to see the laughing mouth of the cup.

This enchantment of wonder is a place to be remembered:
on seeing the morning we forgot the evening.

To whom does that mischief of the age show its eye?
We know the turning of the days for a conjuring trick.

Can mischief-making ever hide behind a veil?
We hear your name from Zoroastrian and Muslim alike.

That ruthless one holds the messenger's blood lawful:
we shall send the message by some tell-tale.

The ground of your lane has seized my feet:
now we take one step for a hundred years' road.

What can we call our love's eyes in the mood of wine?
Every day we roast almonds for a relish. [TN: the almond is the stock image for the eye.]

The green down of her cheek has made her grime tenfold: [TN: the first down on the beloved's cheek, *khat*, which was thought to spoil the smooth face.]
now we shall look for a barber to make it clean.

This is still the state of what we have gained from love:
we are still ripening our raw desire.

If there is pleasure in being captive in the tresses,
we will buy the net to imprison the heart.

Whenever we happen to pass through the beloved's lane,
we keep gazing with longing at the door and roof.

God has sent beauty for the sake of love:
Aatish, we do the work we have come for.

Ghazal: The breast of the men of vision is a mirror, as it was

The breast of the men of vision is a mirror, as it was:
the face of the beloved we seek is revealed, as it was.

In love of the rose the nightingale's cry is the same as it was;
in the moonlight the state of the linen is as it was. [TN: linen was believed to tear in moonlight.]

The world of the idols' God-given beauty is as it was:
coquetry and grace are a calamity for heart and soul, as they were.

I pass night and day on your road:
the same milestone, the same marker, as it was.

We turn the night of separation into day by keeping awake:
in our eyes light sleep is heavy, as it was.

Though you are famed throughout a world as Messiah,
the name of the sick still gives you palpitations, as it did.

That same breast is the treasury of the wealth of love:
the scar of the heart and the wound of the liver are its seal, as they were.

You have begun to be ashamed of coquetry and grace:
where is that state of passing beauty that there was?

We tell the state of our heart for the comfort of the soul:
we suspect your disbelief, as we did.

The trace of the destination sought is not in the world:
on the road there is a caravan of drifting sand, as there was.

There is a mouth in that book-like face, but it cannot be seen:
the Greatest Name is hidden in the Quran, as it was. [TN: the Greatest Name of God, said to be hidden in the Quran.]

The Kaaba in view still points the direction of prayer:
the heart keeps watching towards the beloved's lane, as it did.

It wanders through mountain and desert and garden,
that flowing water still searching for you, as it was.

From the burning of the heart the sighs follow in the same chain:
from the burning aloes there is smoke in the censer, as there was.

The night passes listening to the same talk:
the candle of the gathering is that smooth-tongued idol, as it was.

At the foot of the wine jar the drunkards' state is what it is;
in the pulpit the preacher's sermon is as it was.

On what day are new graves not made in it?
This ruin is the house of warning, as it was.

That light of my eyes is not unaware of my longing:
the messenger of tears is there night and day, as he was.

Let not the Night of Power be a figure for the night of union: [TN: *Lailat al-Qadr*, the holiest night, hidden among the nights of Ramadan.]
its tale is in the middle of Ramadan, as it was.

Aatish is still a seeker of faith and the world:
this beggar asks for the cash of both worlds, as he did.

Ghazal: What have you done? You have burst the blisters of our feet

What have you done? You have burst the blisters of our feet:
thorns of the desert of madness, you have plucked the stars of the Throne.

On chin and cheek she left nothing for the spies:
she plucked all the fruit of the garden of beauty.

When was the chain of our captivity cut?
She put on anklets when she took off her bracelets. [TN: a pun: *tore*, "bracelets" and "broke".]

There can be no drunkard as greedy for intoxication as I:
having drunk the wine, I broke the rim of the cup with my teeth.

The sherbet of union is here for the treatment:
let not the fever of separation come and break our body.

Your cunning ends in the stolen glance:
you have not broken hearts; you have broken the friends' boxes. [TN: obscure: *pitare*, a basket or box; perhaps the friends' treasures.]

When that tree of beauty came into our sight,
we kissed and plucked the dates of the sweet lip.

Who told you to love one without pain?
Did you not break your head beating it, did the pain not break your heart?

God has seated you in the corner of solitude, Aatish:
if you stir from here now, may your feet be broken.

Ghazal: At last the feet move at the speed of an arrow

At last the feet move at the speed of an arrow:
let them never fall on the road anywhere but the destination.

On the night of union my feet rose before my love's;
we went four steps ahead even of passing life.

Heedlessness keeps me so far from the lane I seek
as the feet become useless when they fall asleep.

Among the people of the world I am like the dead among the living:
however far they go, a few steps are all that go with them.

For an age they have wandered on the road to the Kaaba:
will the feet show me the sight of God?

Even in the rush of madness I did not climb that wall and run:
the feet took away a longing for the thorns on the wall's top.

Like autumn leaves sins fall at every step
when the pilgrims lift their feet on Your road.

Madness, show me mountain and wilderness too:
let the feet stay wary of the low and the high.

This wandering of the lanes night and day is not without cause:
behind whose wall will the feet rub their heels?

Know the path of love's road for the ruled line of a page:
walk on your head, like a foot, if the feet are useless.

Aatish, if I am dust, let me be the dust of His door
whose feet were worthy of the Prophet's shoulders. [TN: Ali, who climbed on the Prophet's shoulders to cast down the idols of the Kaaba.]

Ghazal: Whose speech is acquainted with that rose's ear

Whose speech is acquainted with that rose's ear?
Let someone say something with his tongue: whose mouth is this?

The Resurrection rises before the Judgement:
the gait those graceful ones walk, whose gait is it?

The hand of power has made you, beloved:
whose body is cast in such a mould?

How should we not ask you? Be just:
whose mouth is worthy of a kiss?

I shall not fit my skin for the joy of death:
what do they call a grave? Whose name is a shroud?

The narrow mouth is imaginary: who is sure of it?
The beloved's waist is non-existent: whose opinion is this? [TN: the beloved's mouth and waist are so fine that their existence is doubted.]

Whatever mischiefs there are, are less than that black eye:
what is called mischief-making, whose art is it?

A whole world must be struck dumb in love of you:
whose body is clearer than a clear mirror?

Let the heart fall for beauty, let it be sick with love,
then whose is the jujube of the lip, the apple of the chin?

There is no garden better than the garden of beauty:
whose hyacinth is curled and twisted like this?

Every flower in the garden of the world is God's power:
who is its gardener? Whose garden is this?

Let me mix it with the dust, let me ruin it:
whose life is it? My life, whose body is this?

A stature like the cypress is not in my view:
whose face is like the rose? Whose mouth is like the bud?

Why should the servants not give heart and soul spontaneously?
The power of God: whose spontaneity is this?

If it is to be left tomorrow, let this ruin be left today:
what grief have we poor ones? Whose homeland is this?

Your love has no love for you, Aatish:
then whose is this title in the letter, "My kind friend"?

Ghazal: With my collar torn, I rolled on the fire in envy

With my collar torn, I rolled on the fire in envy
when her skirt trailed on the dust as she walked.

Since my heart was so bound to the curving brow,
I writhed when I saw the sword's edge bared.

It is right that Moses could not bear the beauty: [TN: Moses fainted at the sight of God's glory on Sinai.]
unseen, You have ravished the heart of Zoroastrian and Muslim.

When the feast of sacrifice drew near, the prison keeper, [TN: *Id-e Qurban*, the feast of sacrifice.]
understanding something in his heart, came and rolled at my feet.

Thousands of wretched hearts writhed like a slaughtered bird
whenever that laughing rose rolled about with laughter.

When I, Aatish, lamented at the beloved's door,
the doorkeeper rolled about, clutching his liver with both hands.

Ghazal: Let us search for You well in these six directions

Let us search for You well in these six directions:
let us go into the Kaaba and bow to You on all four sides.

If lovers speak anything of pure beauty,
let them make ablution first, and only then name the skirt.

Let the cypresses be ashamed, sink into the ground, or be honoured
if they dare to stand upright before you.

Those who create You alone have the power;
those alone are steadfast who search for You.

The breeze has carried the scent of my love's tress into the garden:
those locks would throw even the hyacinth's chain into disorder.

The telling of tales is in the serpent of my love's tresses:
let the lamps fall silent if we speak. [TN: storytellers told tales of serpents, and the lamps were put out when snakes were spoken of.]

Let not the chain of madness slip from the hand:
tear the skirt, if they mend the collar.

King of beauty, like beggars
the lovers pray for your good from lane to lane.

Give a public sight of yourself, lift the veil:
how long shall God's servants go on longing?

In drunkenness I shall be disrespectful to my love:
let cup and jug not make me a sinner.

This has been chosen from the diwan of beauty:
let those of a lover's temper read the white page of the throat. [TN: *bayaz*, both "whiteness" and "a notebook of chosen verses".]

The praise of their beauty is on our tongue day and night:
as much as is fitting, let these poets exaggerate.

We would write a deed of servitude to the beautiful
if these hot-tempered ones gave up practising cruelty.

I am bewildered by your clear cheek:
the mirror would be struck dumb if they set it before you.

I am a bird of the garden; let me sing, spring has come:
let the lovers of colour and fragrance stir up the tumult.

God's beggars are people of power:
the idol's stone would melt if we chanted "Hu". [TN: *Hu*, "He", the Sufi chant of God's name.]

Though You are present, desire wants us
to wander and search for You on all four sides.

Aatish, this is the "ground" in which, as Dard says, [TN: Khwaja Mir Dard (d. 1785), poet of Delhi, who wrote a ghazal in this metre and rhyme.]
"There is no heart left at all with which to long for anything."

Ghazal: Into her lane the Messiah kept going every morning

Into her lane the Messiah kept going every morning:
there, every night one or two kept dying without their hour.

Even in the beloved's lane there is no trace of it now:
who knows where my heart went off in distress?

When I wandered out towards the mountains, the mountain-digger [TN: Farhad, who cut through the mountain for Shirin.]
struck my head with his axe and went away.

I find neither pull in the beloved nor attraction in the lover:
what calamity has come? The effect of love is gone.

Bravo, what darkness! For the light of the city of Egypt
the light of sight left the eyes of Jacob. [TN: Jacob went blind weeping for Joseph, who became the light of Egypt.]

O God, give the drinkers death in their very drunkenness:
what is a pearl worth when its lustre is gone? [TN: a pun: *ab*, "water" and "lustre".]

The sky gave the grief of parting from one comrade or another:
pain of the heart arose, and pain of the liver went.

Having lost her beauty, that young sapling became our friend:
we reached the foot of the tree when the fruit was gone.

Those who give pain get no respite from the world's sorrows:
when did the lion's fever ever go down? On what day did the headache go?

My love did not come to Aatish's grave to say the Fatiha: [TN: the opening chapter of the Quran, recited for the dead.]
in only two days so much regard for love was gone.

Ghazal: When weighed in the scales of justice, it was plain

When weighed in the scales of justice, it was plain:
the pan of your beauty was heavier than Joseph's.

On the face of the earth I writhed so, slaughtered,
that my blood flew up and became the twilight of the sky.

The hidden love of that lightning-like one came out:
the smoke of my sighs became a black cloud.

In old age I fell in love with a young beauty:
once more the bow had strength in its practice-bow. [TN: *kabada*, a light bow used for exercise.]

When was the sky ever clean with the people of the earth?
On what day was linen spread in the house of the moon? [TN: linen was believed to tear in moonlight.]

The mark of love's scar was wiped from the heart:
alas, our house has gone without a lamp.

The bubble is itself in two pieces at one stroke:
the whirlpool became a whetstone for the wave's sword.

When I looked at her with a salamander's eye, [TN: the salamander, *samandar*, was thought to live in fire.]
the garden turned to fire, the hyacinth to smoke.

I cannot reach the pride of my love's tresses:
musk has grown dear somehow these days.

In separation from those with lovely eyes we have so writhed and twisted
that every bone of ours has become a gazelle's horn.

My feet never learned the hardship of love's road:
the frenzy of madness became a flying throne for me.

Beauty grew proud from the crowd of lovers:
it became dear from the multitude of buyers.

We were mixed with the dust on the road of an idol:
the stone of our grave became a milestone.

The old sky was not thrown away like a horseshoe:
no child of tears of ours ever grew up. [TN: obscure: the sense of the first line is uncertain.]

When you went to the riverbank to see the moonlight,
the flowing water stood still on seeing you.

A man should not be a burden on another's temper:
whoever is heavy on anyone, let him think himself light.

The longing stayed to tell my state to that rose:
when I inclined to speak, thorns grew in my tongue.

By God's grace I made the idols obedient:
the realm of India came under my seal.

I did justice in the world of means:
when linen came to hand, I had a canopy made. [TN: a pun: *chandni*, "moonlight" and "a white floor-cloth or canopy".]

Its turning has ground our bones to collyrium:
the sky has become a mill to grind us.

By the killer's sword we found the road to the land of non-being:
iron became a milestone for us.

My lofty thought made me so lofty,
Aatish, that the sky is lower than the ground of my verse.

Ghazal: The heart's frenzy is not such that I shall recover

The heart's frenzy is not such that I shall recover:
like a tight shirt, I shall slip out.

I am not one to be put off by coldness:
I was going today; out of spite against you I shall go tomorrow.

The evening of separation turns into morning by no means:
hiding my face, I shall slip out in the dark.

To whom do you show the sword you draw from your waist?
I am not the beloved's navel, to be put out of place. [TN: *naf talna*, "the navel slipping", a disorder of the stomach.]

To whom does the night of separation show its blackness?
I am no boy, to be frightened.

The madness for my love's lane is part of my head:
though my feet grow numb with tiredness, I shall go.

There is no strength left to restrain the heart's restlessness:
the mountain of patience now calls out, "I shall give way."

From the influence of my evil star I am sure
I shall depart in longing for you, beauty of conduct.

The four days of life will pass for me in regret:
I shall be rubbed out in the palm of sorrow over my heart's state.

Eyes, do not show me the flame-faced:
my heart is softer than wax; I shall melt.

Who in youth knew the state of old age?
How could I think that in two days I would change?

My madness is the same: let spring come:
seeing the boys' faces, I shall be distracted. [TN: boys threw stones at the madman.]

Verses are cast by my thought today, Aatish:
tomorrow, dead, I shall be cast in the mould of the grave.

Ghazal: Madness, the mad are being taken out from the city to the desert

Madness, the mad are being taken out from the city to the desert:
the season of roses has come, and the madmen have set out from the city.

Hearing the news of our homeland, we wept bitterly over our state,
when someone from our city turned up in exile.

I am a captive; I shall give my life; friends, keep quiet:
why mention that the madman has set out from the city?

In the season of roses I stayed in prison, and death did not come:
I cannot face the whole city.

When, in the rush of frenzy, I took the road from prison to the desert,
the children called "God keep you!" from the city.

Children, Majnun's feet have no strength:
let the air of the rose season stir you out of the city.

For God's sake show us your lovely face once:
we are leaving your city thirsting to see you.

The madman has no need to wander the desert:
he who is beside himself is beyond the whole city. [TN: a pun: *jame se bahar*, "out of one's garment", beside oneself with rage or passion.]

It feels strange; the heart grows weary of the jungle:
the children's stones beckon me from the city.

From frenzy my corpse has not yet reached the desert:
those going to the grave have reached the edge of the city.

The season of roses has come: let the madmen mean to wander:
they gape from the city at the fruit of the desert.

Now you are vexed, but you will wring your hands again
the moment Aatish leaves the city, my dear.

Ghazal: Idol, the God who gave you a face like the moon

Idol, the God who gave you a face like the moon
has given me love too.

The sword is not without temper, nor the killer's arm weak:
partly my life is hard to take, partly death has given respite.

For whom so much war and battle, sky?
You have given me neither banner nor drum. [TN: *nishan* and *naubat*, the banner and kettledrum granted as marks of rank.]

Waves of a snakebite come night and day:
the madness for my love's curls has given me torment.

Elixir has come; the rich man has no such heart:
it is not humility He has given me, it is wealth. [TN: obscure: the first line is uncertain.]

On what night did the wick of my candle not burn?
We too have performed many love charms.

He will carry the body beneath the earth,
He who gave the soul the power to travel the sky.

I pass my days weeping in separation from my love:
what has He given me as life? He has given me calamity.

Heart, let the memory of the beloved not be forgotten:
good intent has given me this blessing of love.

He created ears to hear the mention of your beauty;
He gave sight to the eyes to see you.

Do not ask about the pleasure of the lovesick lover's bondage:
this captivity has given freedom from both worlds.

Take up the theme of the beloved's waist, Aatish:
you have been given a talent as far-reaching as the beauties' tresses.

Ghazal: In the market of the world where was your station not

In the market of the world where was your station not?
There was no shop without some Joseph in it.

The paleness of my colour made me weep:
this was not the saffron that makes one laugh. [TN: saffron was believed to cause laughter.]

The inner self of the fair-faced was contrary to their outer:
their tongue was not like their sweet lips.

The destination itself is far, since it has not arrived yet:
passing life was not one to stop for breath on the road.

It showed my eyes the roof of desire:
there was no such lasso, no such ladder.

We too compared her to the rainbow,
since, having no string, that brow was not a bow.

Beauty did not know the pull of Zulaikha's love:
in the well Joseph had no news of the caravan.

When I remembered the string of pearls at your ear,
it was a file to my soul, not the Milky Way at night.

It is no wonder that the body lags behind the soul:
which caravan has not had dust trailing behind it?

It is a sign of incomprehension that he refused to bow:
the reality of Adam was not plain to Iblis. [TN: Iblis, Satan, refused to bow to Adam.]

The madness for the beloved's lane goes with the lover's head:
he was no believer who had no longing for Paradise.

Everyone's step stayed ahead of the sound of the bell:
there was no dust behind our caravan.

Why lament youth that is gone?
What spring was there that had no autumn?

Not one day did you warm your love's ear with laments:
Aatish, was there no tongue in your mouth?

Ghazal: The lightning's preparations to fall on it are in vain

The lightning's preparations to fall on it are in vain:
the rose petals themselves are sparks to our nest.

Even in childhood I was so given to madness
that when I wore the fetters of a vow, I wore heavy ones. [TN: children were made to wear light anklets as a vow for their safety.]

As soon as death came, sleep came to us of itself:
was it in memory of death that we kept those night-long vigils?

Down on her cheek, what have you done to those fair cheeks?
The moonlit nights have suddenly turned dark.

From the laughter of the rose the sound of lament comes to me:
surely the flower beds have been watered with the nightingale's blood.

Even the figure of dust is harder than iron:
on man's body swords have become saws.

It is fear of the Creator; otherwise what is the censor worth?
Go to the qazi's house and drink wine there.

These ruinous ages do not empty out only us:
friends too have gone round, each in his turn.

Order it, Aatish, that the market of love be shut:
now let the petty pedlars ply their shops.

Ghazal: Let me show the spectacle of my wretched fortune

Let me show the spectacle of my wretched fortune:
if my house catches fire, I put out the water.

Who is the buyer of precious goods?
O God, I am not unique, that I should be stolen.

I am so hungry for the beauty of the tulip-cheeked
that my heart would not be filled though I took a hundred thousand scars.

If my love's beauty would light my eyes,
I would burn lamps of clarified butter on Sinai.

How my fortune sleeps like the dead!
Let me wake it with a kick from my love's foot.

If I could kiss the bow of my love's brow,
I would string the bow in the arch of the Kaaba.

The heart longs, in the desire for martyrdom, before death
to have my grave built and plant tulips on it.

If that king of beauty came to the house of a beggar like me,
I would spread the mats of my eyelashes that stand upright.

Though separation has dried me to a thorn,
if that rose-bodied one met me I would not fit my skin.

You never once came to my poor house:
if you say so, I will come at some hour of the night.

I see finely, I am a poet of delicate fancy:
wherever I find the theme of the waist, I tie it up and bring it.

Aatish, I am the slave of the cupbearer of Kausar:
I ought to find the door of Paradise open. [TN: the cupbearer of Kausar, the pool of Paradise, is Ali.]

Ghazal: Every lovely one became the bane of my life

Every lovely one became the bane of my life:
when the knife was sharpened, I was slaughtered first.

Once it was pawned it could not be redeemed:
my poor heart became the goods of paupers.

There is no lack of anything at Your court:
the needy got whatever they asked.

Showing her shining face at nightfall, she says,
"It is not the sun that has set."

Do not hurt my heart, idol; I am one with you:
if I was grieved, you were grieved.

My eyes have faded that face in the search for themes:
the thought of my love has become the thought of verse.

In the pocket of your martyr's shroud, killer,
the colour of the powder is redder than the Holi red. [TN: *gulal* and *abir*, the coloured powders thrown at Holi.]

Sitting in the dust raised my worth:
I rose high when I was trampled.

In my love's wrath I saw the glory of kindness:
whatever she made a sapling, she made a tree of lamps.

I am sure the Sufi would have died had he seen
the state that came over us in our ecstasy.

I was so weak that when I meant to eat,
I became a toothpick in the teeth of separation's grief.

The madness for your waist has made me so thin
that my reflection in the mirror became a hair.

You should not have shown your collyrium-lined eyes:
the gazelle was struck wild by your coquettish glance.

The heart desired to kiss the beloved's mouth:
it thought a raw thought and sought the impossible.

This was the state of madness in spring and autumn:
when it grew it became a tress, when it shrank, a mole.

In madness I played at kingship in the way of childhood:
every gazelle became a toy in my eyes.

When I heard your name too was Jamil, beloved, [TN: *jamil*, "beautiful"; also a man's name.]
my heart became with a thousand lives the slave of beauty.

Whoever's name you have written among your lovers,
his face was never restored all his life.

Someone sinned, and our heart trembled:
we broke into sweat for the one who felt ashamed.

When mention came of your mouth and waist, my love,
what did suspicion and fancy not suppose?

What perfection is there that does not decline?
A thousand thanks that I attained no perfection. [TN: a pun: *kamal*, "perfection", and *zawal*, "decline", the waning that follows the full moon.]

Your crooked brow was mistaken for the second night's moon:
had it been the new moon of Id, it would have turned black.

The sorrow your love gave was a comfort:
if separation was bitter, union was sweet to me.

Aatish, that is the tablet of the breaking of the body's spell,
when the balance of the elements was disturbed.

Ghazal: The nightingale is pricked by thorns of the schoolroom these days

The nightingale is pricked by thorns of the schoolroom these days: [TN: *khar-khar*, "a pricking anxiety"; the boys carry the *Gulistan*, Saadi's Rose Garden, under their arms as a school text.]
every child has a rose garden under his arm these days.

In the love of an idol the vein of life is a sacred thread these days;
the lamenting heart is the Brahmin's conch these days.

My ruined house is peopled these days:
the flood is the guest of poor me these days.

The skirt of one the moon envies is in our hand:
the crescent of the collar is before our eyes these days.

Whoever is in the garden of the world is your captive:
only the cypress of the garden is free these days.

We now write a ghazal in Majnun's "ground":
each of our verses is a prison cell these days. [TN: a pun: *bait*, "verse" and "house".]

Idol, you are an unbeliever if you do not buy it:
a Muslim's blood goes at the price of henna these days.

The tumult of beauty and love is very hot just now:
whoever is human is mad for a fairy these days.

Where is the tale of the drunkenness of those lips not told?
There is no gathering that is not amazed these days.

The partridges give their lives for my love's cheek: [TN: the partridge, *chakor*, is said to love the moon.]
that full moon is a shining moon these days.

That jewel of desire comes to walk in the garden:
the rose holds out its skirt these days.

Her stature a cypress, her face a rose, her hair hyacinths:
the house is a garden while she is our guest these days.

The judges of temper are gathered, Aatish; it is a battle:
the sword is the one that is bared these days.

Ghazal: Seeing you, the nightingale fell out with the roses

Seeing you, the nightingale fell out with the roses;
the ring-dove's collar fell on the cypress's neck. [TN: the ring-dove, *qumri*, is the lover of the cypress; the ring round its neck is its collar.]

Do not frown, idol of China, in the way of pride: [TN: a pun: *chin*, "frown, wrinkle" and "China".]
if the face is spoiled, it is a fault of the picture.

It has come to like my love's gait:
mark my words, the partridge's foot has lost its step.

My foot did not draw back from the killer's lane:
the torso writhed four steps ahead of the head.

When the ring-dove heaved a cold sigh as I do,
the cypress in the garden went stiff with the cold.

Parviz and the mountain-digger both lost their hearts to Shirin: [TN: Khusrau Parviz, the king, and Farhad, rivals for Shirin.]
I am a poet: I say the theme has found its rival.

God, what longing! Our brow does not know it
has worn away the stone of that idol's threshold.

Our pain was doubled by the cure:
from the ointment the scar in the breast became an ulcer.

It became a bouquet, the glory of kings' assemblies,
the rubbish that fell from this beggar's pillow.

The lamenting heart did not leave the body with the soul:
at the stage it was parted from its camel's colour. [TN: obscure: the sense of the second line is uncertain.]

Whoever reached the essence of the Real from the figurative,
know that he went round the long way.

In the night of separation my life did not keep faith:
did not our lamp go out before the dawn? [TN: *chiragh barhana*, "to put out a lamp", literally "to increase it".]

In my longing for union I find my friends fewer:
some change has come over my love's beauty.

Do not lift the lovers' corpses from the lane, my love:
this village will not be peopled again once it is laid waste.

When it saw you dressed in red with the martyrs' blood,
the Turk of the sky sank into the earth for shame. [TN: the Turk of the sky, Mars, the warrior planet.]

My dear ones came on a road of years and passed on:
alas, I was parted from my caravan.

When I thought of explaining the ruby of my love's lip,
the banner of my pen was planted in Badakhshan. [TN: Badakhshan, famed for its rubies.]

I took the fairy-faced union in my arms:
the demon of separation was parted from me in the wrestling.

Aatish, do not ask the state of pained me:
a scar in the breast, and in the scar an ulcer.

Ghazal: The friend's scent has filled every thread of my shirt

The friend's scent has filled every thread of my shirt:
like the picture on a quilt I lie beside the friend.

The coloured face is a coloured diwan, but
the down is the second opening couplet, the friend's brow the clear opening. [TN: *matla*, the opening couplet of a ghazal; *husn-e matla*, a second opening couplet.]

The night of separation has grown longer than the Day of Judgement:
the friend's tresses have not yet come down below the shoulder.

Clear away the grime of the heart, be lost in the sight:
the clear breast showed the mirror the friend's face.

Bravo, the comb's fortune! Who knew
that the knots of the friend's hair would be opened by a numb hand?

Count it a blessing if the scar of the heart comes through safely:
the eyes that look towards the friend are enemies of life.

Two will die of a mortal wound, a thousand of longing:
after four sword-strokes the friend's arm will be numb.

A carpet of roses was our bed; now we sleep on the dust:
there is no brick beneath our head, or the friend's knee was our pillow.

We weep remembering our ruin
when the fierce wind blows away the dust of the friend's lane.

Aatish, see how one can get on with this bane of life:
the heart more delicate than glass, the friend's temper more delicate than the heart.

Ghazal: Let my mind be refreshed: if there is a longing, it is this

Let my mind be refreshed: if there is a longing, it is this:
let me smell the scent of that tress: if there is a madness, it is this.

Whom has my letter not set the scissors to?
If the pigeon's wings are clipped, the phoenix is this. [TN: obscure: the *anqa*, the fabulous bird that is never seen; perhaps the letter never arrives.]

It is not only the cypress whose rank is lower than your stature:
if anything is taller than the box-tree and the pine, it is this.

If my love does not meet me, I will not meet her either:
if my honour now demands anything, it is this.

Light of my eyes, by the miracle of your beauty
even the blind will say, "If there is a Messiah, it is this."

Let my love not veil the sight of her even at the Judgement:
if the lover has any fear of tomorrow, it is this.

If the eyes can see, let them look at my love's face:
if any spectacle is worth beholding, it is this.

How can the theme of my love's mouth come out of thought?
If any riddle among riddles is insoluble, it is this.

Now the memory of the idol is in the heart, now the memory of God:
if it is the Kaaba, it is this; if the church, it is this.

The beloved, wine, an empty house and a moonlit night:
if there is any profit of the world for the lover, it is this.

Why should the madmen not wear stocks and chains?
If there is a robe of honour from the court of madness, it is this.

If there is love, it is for the heart; the heart is for the sake of love:
if there is wine, it is this; and if there is a flask, it is this.

Listen some time to the laments of the one mad for her stature:
if there is a clamour like the tumult of Judgement, it is this.

Prove your love's mouth with arguments, Aatish:
if there is any place for proof for the poet, it is this.

Ghazal: If only your tresses had coiled

If only your tresses had coiled,
if only you had set the hyacinth waving!

If only you had shown your spotless face,
if only you had put the tulip to shame! [TN: the tulip is "scarred", with a dark spot at its heart.]

How can the partridge walk with your gait?
If only it had learned this manner of stepping!

I would have gone on telling, whether she listened or not,
if only the heart's state had come to my tongue.

Whether it understood or not, Aatish,
if only I had reasoned with the restless heart!

Ghazal: For years I have talked with the image of someone

For years I have talked with the image of someone:
for years a picture of the mind has stayed before me.

That candle-faced one was my guest for a night, and for years
the lamp of longing in my house stayed lit.

I have kept it close as life itself, till the moment of death:
for years longing will weep over our grave.

I had once groaned without thinking in the garden, broken-hearted:
for years the nightingale complained to the rose of its sore throat.

Even if I turn to dust, Aatish, like a whirlwind,
the search for someone will keep me wandering for years.

Ghazal: Breaking the chain of the thread of sight, it went away

Breaking the chain of the thread of sight, it went away:
throwing dust in my eyes, the caravan went away.

On what day did my love's skirt come into my hand?
When did the distance between earth and sky go away?

No one accused the desert thorn of theft:
how many of Majnun's blisters went away!

I have borne such blows from friends
that the complaint of the enemy's enmity went from my heart.

When I lifted my foot, Aatish, like the sound of the bell,
I went on, leaving the caravan miles behind.

Ghazal: If I have forgotten the memory of you, heart's desire

If I have forgotten the memory of you, heart's desire,
by God, I have forgotten; by God, I have forgotten.

On the night of separation the soul-burning heart
cried "Ah, ah!" when it forgot "Alas, alas!"

Do not set your foot crooked; go, heedless of the heart:
whoever lost the road went the long way round.

I put on the sacred thread, threw away the rosary:
in love of the idol I forgot God.

The sun cast it out of its sight,
the mote that forgot your court.

Whoever took the long tress for a serpent
missed his mark: he forgot the short tale.

At the sight of your shining face
we forgot the sun, we forgot the moon.

The cupbearer kept us deprived:
the one great as Jamshid forgot his beggar.

I left the idol-house, gave up the idol:
I forgot that city, I forgot that king.

To make faithfulness a condition with some faithless one:
even a knowing mystic like Aatish forgot.

Ghazal: Bear pain in love of a life-giving lip

Bear pain in love of a life-giving lip:
fall sick, and bear the Messiah's airs.

The holy ones hope for a kindly glance:
just raise your eyes towards the world above.

If madness carries us off this spring,
let us pick and gather the scars of the desert tulip.

Use the pen at the time of composing verse:
gallop the horse on the field of battle.

If love shows us the radiance of my love's beauty,
in how many ways shall we enjoy the spectacle!

When one like you is the beloved, why should one not bear
her rightful coquetry and her wrongful glances?

I am a pauper a hundred times over, yet the heart is set on this:
to borrow and buy Joseph, and bear the dunning.

The season of spring has come: drink wine, Sufis:
enough of prayer; take up the prayer mat.

The cupbearer stands holding a cup of pure wine:
just raise your neck, like the neck of the flask.

You have blessed the ears by letting them hear your voice:
have pity on the eyes too; lift the veil.

In the rush of madness do not turn and look back:
like a river, set your face whichever way you go.

The beloved is a swordsman, a brave young man:
Aatish, take up the challenge of the holy war of love. [TN: *bira uthana*, "to take up the betel leaf", to accept a challenge.]

Ghazal: Now that we are disgraced, what denial is there in the truth

Now that we are disgraced, what denial is there in the truth?
Idol, what pleasure is there in meeting behind a veil?

Only a blind man would call you a moon, O sun:
can a man not tell day from night?

My love did promise to meet tomorrow, on the Day of Judgement:
lament of my heart, is there any doubt of your miracles?

One goes to the idol-house, another to the Kaaba:
are Zoroastrian and Muslim going about lying in wait for you?

For an age I have been a beggar at your door:
shall I get a kiss or a curse as alms?

The wall of your house is not so very high:
will no dark night come, no rainy season?

The two hours' meeting there was has stopped too:
did it so disturb my love's time?

Reading the letter, we despaired still more of union:
what has my love sent us as a gift from the journey?

If I meet drunken Aatish, I will ask him,
"What rapture have you had in the tavern?"