Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: Today I too have lost myself

Today I too have lost myself:
finding you, I too was lost.

There were too few beads on the rosary of sorrows:
I too threaded a few pearls on it.

The crowd in which she had long been surrounded,
I too was lost in that same throng.

Where did I not go looking for you?
When I did not find you, I too was lost.

Calling living a waking,
today I too have slept without sleep.

If I weep, the world will laugh:
what could I do? I too fell silent.

Alas for Arzoo's hopelessness:
you were helpless, and I too wept.

Ghazal: What companions there were in times of ease! When the hour came, there was no one

What companions there were in times of ease! When the hour came, there was no one:
all friends are friends for their own ends; in the world no one is anyone's.

Walking in the garden, do not draw your veil over your face; why be shy of the narcissus?
You veil yourself from the eye in which there is no veil at all.

The garden that yesterday was full of flowers, where the breeze walked playfully,
now, what talk of hyacinth and rose? Dust flies; no one is in that place.

Those who yesterday feared the dark, who always had lamps lit before their eyes,
now, apart from the scar, there is no one even to light one candle on the grave.

When the eyes closed, it was plain the whole quarrel was of two days:
neither his throne is left nor his crown; there is no Alexander or Darius.

The beloveds who were slayers of the world, their tombs lie desolate:
either there were millions to die for them, or there is no one to weep.

Arzoo, this much can still be traced of your ruin:
there is no desert like it, from which no whirlwinds rise.

Ghazal: The one who came into the heart through the eye

The one who came into the heart through the eye
will not leave the heart now.

The one who burned the house and left
will not come back again.

He is a friend, but a foolish one,
who explains without understanding.

He wipes away the tears and laughs,
the one who sets fire to fire.

If there is anyone, it is the thought of him,
coming and going.

Friends, in the town of beauty
is there anyone who takes pity?

He is putting difficulty in my work,
the one who helps in difficulty.

With what heart did she give this comfort,
that the one crying out did not fall silent?

He comes behind the veil of a dream,
the one who wakes me when he finds me asleep.

One day he will lift the veil himself,
the one who torments me by hiding.

Arzoo, why are you silent before her,
you who are such a smooth talker?

Ghazal: Hesitation in coming, shyness in meeting: you somewhere else, I somewhere else

Hesitation in coming, shyness in meeting: you somewhere else, I somewhere else.
Now, is the vow of faithfulness broken or kept? You somewhere else, I somewhere else.

One here beside herself with joy, one there a little lost:
together in appearance, apart within: you somewhere else, I somewhere else.

When you came, you came from flattery; when you sat, you sat from politeness:
what kind of meeting is this, when the hearts did not meet? You somewhere else, I somewhere else.

You made a promise, and did not keep it; you enjoy the wounding:
leave this stubbornness; what pleasure is in it? You somewhere else, I somewhere else.

This is how ill fortune goes: even sleeping is sleeping on one side:
how long this weeping of separation? You somewhere else, I somewhere else.

Even when the hearts met, we did not sit side by side; the enemy is hidden right at hand:
this shyness of love is a killer: you somewhere else, I somewhere else.

I desire a heart that is single, you want a heart that is ruined:
what other end can this stubbornness have? You somewhere else, I somewhere else.

If the bond is fixed in the heart, why argue about far and near?
This too is a trick of the eyes: you somewhere else, I somewhere else.

Hear before the vow of faithfulness the word of Arzoo the infatuated:
even Paradise is hell if it comes to this: you somewhere else, I somewhere else.

Naat: Since the beginning of time the grace of Muhammad, the beloved, has been engraved on the heart

Since the beginning of time the grace of Muhammad, the beloved, has been engraved on the heart:
the Tablet has kept the tale of Muhammad safe. [TN: the Preserved Tablet, *lauh-e mahfuz*, on which all things are written.]

Why should one mad for Muhammad fear the fire of hell?
The moth of Muhammad puts out the flames as they rise.

I will join the past to the appearing of the present and the future:
today I must tell the tale of Muhammad once more.

Duality is a stain of slander, a shame, a meaningless charge:
that is the world which the friendship of Muhammad makes its own.

In the prayer for intercession they fan its wings:
the moth of Muhammad can put out hell.

From here to Paradise there is no barrier and no questioning:
go wherever you wish, as the moth of Muhammad.

How can the human senses, the reason of the schools, reach
what one mad for Muhammad says in his flow?

The ray on that side of the glass, the eye on this side:
the moth of Muhammad saw a glimpse and flew there.

Arzoo, let blessings on him be the first word, then the verses of praise:
wash your tongue if you would tell the tale of Muhammad.

Ghazal: For her it is a game: to make one hers and then let go

For her it is a game: to make one hers and then let go:
where can he go now whom she has parted from all and then let go?

Doubting one, forgetting word and promise is no game:
try once more; remind her, and then let go.

The bond of life is over, if this is its state already:
the very one who should share the load brings me halfway and lets go.

What can one say to someone whose temper has this stubbornness:
when she could not put out the blaze, she lit the fire and let go?

The road is long, the feet are numb, and this is my companion's state:
she sets out holding me up, brings me halfway and lets go.

Ghazal: At the start of night the gathering's glory was the candle and the moth too

At the start of night the gathering's glory was the candle and the moth too:
as the night drew to its close this tale too had ended.

When I broke out of prison and rose, the whirlwinds came along:
forest by forest to the desert of non-existence the wilderness too ran with me.

Who flung the cup from his hand at the season's dullness?
The cloud burst and rained so hard the tavern too began to sink.

One flame has two effects, and both are according to rank:
the candle stands with its flame lit, and the moth too is dancing.

Both are fields for madness to roam: what is the town, what is the wilderness?
When some whirlwind rose and set off, the wilderness too ran after.

The buds are silent, the roses are in the air: to whom can one tell one's heart?
There is one blade of grass sitting in the dust, both kin and stranger too.

In the rivalry of beauty and love the teasing often comes from that side:
when the candle's flame wavered, the moth too flew off.

Why should it not be a sharing of blood? Sharing is a thing for quarrels:
from my own I see what even a stranger would not do.

Arzoo, how full of earthquakes was our round of joy:
on its way from the hand to the mouth the cup too slipped.

Ghazal: Pull of love, you tell me: how should it not be moved? It is only a heart

Pull of love, you tell me: how should it not be moved? It is only a heart.
A straight knife, a crooked knife: the heart-piercing glance is only a killer.

When the ache rises it will writhe; do not give up fairness: it is only a heart.
The patience and calm of weariness last only a while: the slain bird is only a slain bird in the end.

In the waves of the storm of calamity I shut my eyes and leapt:
where the boat struck, the heart cried out, "It is only the shore."

Who here has what capacity? The heart alone is its measure:
weeping is bad, laughing is bad; whatever the matter, it is only hard.

What if it is displeased, what if it is pleased? Whatever it is, it is yours:
this company will not be broken; the helpless man's support is only the heart.

There are pleasures in this living death: what does he know who has no grief?
When a claim cannot be proved, the claim is only false.

Here falling was the Khizr of the road, the stone of calamity the milestone:
the limit of the road of seeking has come; where are you going? It is only the goal.

What, to wound and then turn back? Complaint is the result of grief:
when it was struck, the glass rang out; do not think it a stone: it is only a heart.

Arzoo, now keep silent; say nothing good or bad openly:
there are as many tales as mouths; a gathering is only a gathering in the end.

Ghazal: My heart-cherishing wound, go on turning grief into joy

My heart-cherishing wound, go on turning grief into joy:
go on shedding blood from the eyes and smiling with the lips.

Faithless one, before you go, turn the night to morning:
why did you leave having put out the heart? Put out the candle too.

Let the thread of breath break, but not the thread of sighs:
go on singing in one tune, go on playing one melody.

Do not lose longing's honour by waiting for the order to be summoned:
make your head your feet and go, go with your eyes unbidden.

Take it: it is a bitter medicine whose effect is sweet:
go on pulling faces as you drink, go on relishing it in your heart.

Surge of the weeping eye, do not lay the burden of kindness for nothing:
my fire is already out; go on putting out your own.

The goal of longing's self-forgetting lies beyond the reach of sight:
do not even turn to look back; go on stepping forward.

One is all foot of pride, one is all head of humility:
this is the way of the world: the more one yields, go on pressing.

You have the vessel of wine, I have the vessels of joy:
the heart is not the size of the cup; do not look at faces, go on pouring.

Both are the airs of heart-stealing, and in their contrariness lies more pleasure:
on one side go on lighting, on the other go on putting out.

The partridge is lost in the moon, the moon itself is hidden somewhere:
end your own search; go on tracing it.

Arzoo, tell her plainly: the effect of grief lasts long:
laughter will not come quickly; go on tickling a while yet.

Ghazal: The one who knows my ways is looking at me closely

The one who knows my ways is looking at me closely:
enough, glance of despair, do not shame me now.

This heart is beside itself with longing, that eye drunk with wine:
let not a raging thirst bend me toward the cup.

On this side the world's reproach, on that the self's reproach:
it is a great torment that my senses have come back.

Change the subject; do not speak the word "leave":
already the house has begun to look sad to me.

These glances that are kind can change too:
the age has made me one who knows people's ways.

Ghazal: Do not ask my state pretending innocence; if the tears flow, let them flow

Do not ask my state pretending innocence; if the tears flow, let them flow:
the comfort that increases the heart's unrest, let that be.

The customs of this town of darkness are not new, they are old:
draw night's curtain over the sun, and let the moon shine.

Till the soul leaves the garden of the world and reaches the garden of Paradise,
let my eyes stay on your face that long at least.

The rose's laughter will be in the nightingale, the nightingale's song in the rose:
the tale is one, the tongues are two: you tell it, or let it be told.

Why did you give such a madness of longing, if you feared disgrace?
You speak like one who deserves complaint; let me be, rather.

Ghazal: What kind of way is this to calm the heart

What kind of way is this to calm the heart?
If I hold back the lament, the breast will burst.

The rising hopes, will they become wings?
On what wind is the heart's ship sailing?

What a riddle these are, fire and water:
I drink tears, and my breast burns.

Grief, the heart's desire is dear to you, and dear to me,
that delicate beauty.

Today she wiped away my tears, laughing and laughing:
the ship that sank rose up on dry land.

The heart's history is the heart's own engraving:
from blow after blow the gem has cracked.

The broken heart was full of love:
pulling down the building, we found the buried treasure.

His being is beyond the bounds of reason:
the goal is high, the ladder low.

You are Arzoo, you are Arzoo: [TN: a pun: *arzu*, "longing", the poet's pen name.]
then what resentment, then what grudge?

Ghazal: Even content with fate, who would say "make no effort"

Even content with fate, who would say "make no effort"?
Whether the gate of answering opens or not, shake the chain; do not delay.

Let grief grow a little more, heart; do not judge the sigh to have no effect:
the dream is still half done; do not interpret it wrongly before you understand.

When cruelty was repaid with cruelty, the wronged had no right left:
O Lord, give pleasure in the pain itself; do not grant the lament effect.

However stiff the killer's bow, there is some pull in the target too:
do not judge the wound of the arrow by looking at the strength of the arm.

The glances that are straight till now may turn tomorrow:
whatever you must do, do it now; why ponder? Do not delay.

The pact of love has ended; what use now in speaking of it?
Do not join the scattered links; do not make a new chain.

In love's firm covenant what is the surety of flimsy paper?
These are words from heart to heart: remember them; do not put them in writing.

Every heart is life's capital, in every heart the surge of love:
Arzoo, what more will you say? Enough, let it be; no speeches.

Ghazal: In search of colour I am a wanderer like the scent

In search of colour I am a wanderer like the scent:
passing beyond myself, I am the search for myself.

Breath is the surety for the harshness of life's prison:
I am the throat that cannot escape the noose.

The scar of failure is the sign of a passing existence:
I am the blood that has dripped from my own eye.

Like the figure of quicksilver, ever restless,
I am the commentary of longing, for a kind glance.

On my tongue are the fears of failure:
she thinks in her heart that I am making excuses.

The water of shame is still on my brow:
let me say my prayers now, while I am in ablution.

Even being nothing, I am the sum of creation:
for I am not my own longing, I am the longing for you.

Like meaning without words and words without meaning,
I am the Arzoo that is not in your heart. [TN: *arzu*, "longing", the poet's pen name.]

Ghazal: What have you to do with laments, what have you to do with sighs

What have you to do with laments, what have you to do with sighs?
If the sin of love has been hidden, ask the witnesses.

Where shall I go with the begging bowl of a heart that wants nothing?
Why this message of asking from high, high courts?

If love had one tongue, the tongue might be silenced:
what was said in secret, the glances said out loud.

Love overturns the shape of life from within:
these very breaths that come and go will turn into sighs.

It is as if a warrant of mistrust were given before the trial:
to take an oath from the witnesses before the state is told.

It is impossible that love should let one weigh good and bad:
when self-forgetting has grown, who then fears sins?

When one has gone out of oneself, what sense of duality is there?
The trace of the goal is found by those who have lost the way.

Not even the growth of grass and rose can tell
whether these pits were filled with beggars or with kings.

When an overflowing vessel's secret is out, it loses its word:
the heart's pain finds no rest in laments or in sighs.

Let the tears that tremble in the eyes think first:
those who fall from the eyes may never rise again. [TN: *nazron se girna*, "to fall from someone's eyes", is to lose their regard.]

He sits mixed among all, but says nothing with his mouth:
count your Arzoo apart from those who seek redress.

Ghazal: Do not take the writhing heart; take the restlessness with you

Do not take the writhing heart; take the restlessness with you:
fling down the empty cup; take the wine with you.

Turn back and strike the blow that finishes the work:
I am in great torment; take the merit with you.

That very wilderness is better than home where peace is found:
O heart whose house is ruined, take me with you too.

If one sigh's pause is granted, at the time of asking how I am,
take with you the answer to each of your questions.

Having lifted the veil and faced me, do not turn your face away:
having shown a dream, do not take the dream away from my eyes.

Ghazal: The busier the heart was at its work, the more it failed

The busier the heart was at its work, the more it failed:
what is called sense was itself an unripe madness.

The cupbearer was surety for sense; the heart's longing nursed the intoxication:
the cup was at hand, and there was no thought of the end.

How should the breath quickly finish the stage of life?
The way round was miles, but the distance was one step.

The surge of frenzy lasted as far as the illusion of choice:
when the breath broke from weariness, then there was nothing but rest.

Where now is that highway of breath coming and going?
It was a struggle that went by the name of life.

Startled, it turned its eyes from the scene of existence itself:
why were there hiccups? There was a hidden message. [TN: hiccups were said to mean someone is remembering you.]

The flame of youth's ardour flared up and went out at last:
there was the foam of the wave of calamity, and the evening lamp.

How should the moth's heart become a candle without burning?
How could they finish what was my work?

You yourself, keeping it in failure, had broken its courage:
the charge laid on innocent Arzoo was for nothing.

Ghazal: The nights when sleep flies away, what nights of wrath they are

The nights when sleep flies away, what nights of wrath they are!
One bumps into doors, one talks with the walls.

What can one say of the turmoil of separation? Things happen that cannot happen:
darkness covers the eyes when the nights are bright.

When she is not at my side and the nights are long,
remembrance comes and keeps tormenting, and there is talk with the heart.

The clouds gather round and come, and clear without raining:
in the false world of hopes the rains are dry.

The sun of hope has set, darkness has covered the eyes:
what day is there in the world of separation? There are only nights and nights.

The quarrels of living must be settled, by talking and listening as one can:
one has to deal with the deaf, and talk with the dumb.

Where are drops of sweetness in the eyes? If anything, it is the red of blood:
in this changed season now the rains are rains of blood.

If fate wakes, we sleep; if fate sleeps, we wake:
when are there such nights as both of us get sleep?

What do those who listen with their ears know of love's secrets?
Now the lips cannot move, and there is talk for hours.

The airs make one their own, the glances entice:
behind these many-coloured curtains there is ambush upon ambush.

The tears that come in laughing tell of the world's changes:
every day biers go out, every day wedding processions.

Whatever is done gladly, let it not become a weight on the heart:
let the pledge of faithfulness be too; it is all false talk.

As long as there is truth in hearts, all the airs and pleading are there:
when selfishness comes in, there are tricks and ambushes.

Who has the courage to ask this of Arzoo the madman:
"Well, sir, who is it after all you talk to when you are alone?"

Ghazal: Every idol here has one and the same place

Every idol here has one and the same place:
leave duality, servant of God: God is one.

This rose is blooming, that one is withering:
the effects are of two kinds; the wind is one.

The bitter and sweet are the fruits of one's own intention:
otherwise the taste of pain is one.

The changing age has filled in as many colours as it may,
but the story of love is one.

All complaints are wiped away by a kind eye:
the ailments may be thousands; the cure is one.

What have we to do with the world's two colours?
The air of the heart's Paradise is one.

All the beautiful make one beside oneself:
the dwellings are separate; the road is one.

Let one take it for a song, one take it for a lament:
the sound of my heart's instrument is one.

Be it gallows and rope, or poison and dagger,
the pretexts are thousands; death is one.

To love, and to want nothing for oneself too:
there, Arzoo, yours is the only one.

Ghazal: The heart that is anxious at being parted

The heart that is anxious at being parted
is not parted; it is coming closer.

This garden will flower and bear fruit for ever:
it only seems to be withering now.

Every evening says there will be morning again:
in the darkness the sun can be seen.

If the sunlight goes on advancing,
the shadow too comes running after.

The tears will become shining stars:
this weeping brings news of laughter.

If there is no sorrow, there is no joy either:
the age is teaching this sign.

The weariness of the road, Arzoo, says
that rest too is coming along with it.

Ghazal: Where one glance is a crime

Where one glance is a crime,
there is the place to sin boldly on top of sin.

To grow close to idols and keep faith with them
is to turn the world's white to black.

My helplessness has taught me this:
to make her the witness of her own cruelty.

If enticing the heart had any purpose, it was this:
to ruin a poor man's life.

This is it, yes, this is that innocent grace
which, having taught me to sin, stood apart.

Why should we not taste faithfulness even in cruelty?
In every way we have to keep faith.

The magic of the senses-stealing eye says this:
you are to ruin yourself with your own hand.

The heart's sigh has learnt from your glance
to split the liver and make a way.

That cruel one fixes eye on eye so
that now, Arzoo, it is hard to heave even a sigh.

Ghazal: Beauty gave the commentary on the tale of love

Beauty gave the commentary on the tale of love:
the candle, giving off its flame, became the moth's tongue.

My wilderness has no less glory than the town:
in every whirlwind is the soul of some madman.

The coming of the season of roses brings news of a new round:
there should be some freshness in the making of the cup.

Spring has come, cutting short the term of captivity:
the madman's handcuff opens and falls away.

Candle, let not the warmth of beauty's market cool:
blow new life into the moth's corpse.

If it stands up it is a whirlwind, if it sits it is dust:
even turned to dust, the madman has the same glory.

Arzoo, the round of the figurative has ended in the Real:
the Kaaba's foundation was laid behind the screen of the idol-house.