Part One (to 1905): Himalaya to The Morning Star (1–18)

1. Himalaya

O Himalaya! O rampart of the land of Hindustan!
The sky bends down to kiss your brow.

There is no sign of age in you;
you are young between the turning of evening and dawn.

For Moses on Mount Sinai there was a single flash of glory;
for the seeing eye you are glory from head to foot.

To the test of the outward eye you are a mountain range;
you are your own guard, you are the wall of Hindustan.

You are a book of verse whose opening line is the sky;
you draw man by the hem towards the solitude of the heart.

The snow has tied a turban of honour on your head,
that laughs at the crown of the world-illumining sun.

The ancient age is a single moment of your past;
your black clouds pitch their tents in the valleys.

Your peaks are deep in conversation with the Pleiades;
you stand on earth, but the breadth of the sky is your home.

The spring at your foot is a flowing mirror,
and the hem of the wind's wave serves it for a handkerchief.

For the steed of the wind, into the cloud's hands
the lightning on the mountain's head has given a whip.

O Himalaya, are you too some playground
that the hand of Nature made for the elements?

Ah, how the cloud goes swaying in excess of joy,
flying like an elephant without a chain!

The stirring of the waves of the morning breeze has become a cradle;
every flower bud sways, drunk on the wine of being.

Thus its silence speaks with the tongue of a leaf:
"I have never felt the jerk of the flower picker's hand.

My very silence tells my story;
my dwelling is a corner of Nature's private chamber."

The stream comes down from the mountain height, singing,
putting to shame the waves of Kausar and Tasnim,

showing the beloved face of Nature as in a mirror,
now avoiding the stones in its path, now striking them.

Go on, play the lute of this heart-pleasing melody;
O traveller, the heart understands your voice.

When the Laila of night comes and lets down her long tresses,
the sound of the waterfalls tugs at the heart's hem.

That silence of evening, for which speech would give its life,
that air of thought hanging over the trees,

how the colour of twilight goes trembling over the mountains!
How fine this rouge looks on your cheeks!

O Himalaya, tell some story of the time
when your foothills became the home of man's forefathers;

tell something of that plain and simple life
that bore no stain of the rouge of artifice.

Yes, O imagination, show me those mornings and evenings again;
run backwards, O turning of the days!

2. The Bright Flower

You do not know the pain of a hard knot that will not open;
O bright flower, perhaps there is no heart in your breast.

You adorn the gathering but do not share its turmoil;
this ease is not granted to me in the assembly of being.

In this garden I am all the burning and the music of longing,
and your life is without the melting of desire.

To pluck you from the branch is not my way;
this eye is not the eye that sees only outward forms.

Ah, this is not a cruel hand, O bright flower;
how can I make you understand that I am not a flower-picker?

What have I to do with the tangles of the eye of philosophy?
I look at you with the eye of the nightingale.

Though you have a hundred tongues, you choose silence;
what is the secret hidden in your breast?

Like me, you too are a leaf from the garden of Sinai;
I am far from the garden, and you are far from the garden too.

You are at peace; I wander restless like a fragrance;
I live wounded by the sword of the love of seeking.

May this distraction of mine not be the means of gathering;
may this burning of the heart not be the lamp of the house of wisdom.

May my very weakness not be my store of strength;
may my mirror of wonder not be the envy of Jamshed's cup.

This ceaseless seeking is a candle that lights the world;
it teaches the steed of human understanding how to move.

3. Childhood

Earth and sky were new lands to me;
the breadth of my mother's arms was a whole world to me.

Every movement was a sign of life's kindness to me;
my own tongue was a word without meaning to me.

If some pain made me cry in childhood,
the rattle of the chain on the door would delight me.

Ah, how I would gaze for hours at the moon,
at her soundless journey through the broken clouds!

How I would ask again and again for news of her mountains and deserts,
and how I wondered at the well-meant lies they told me!

My eyes were all for seeing, my lips ready to speak;
I had no heart; I was all a love of asking questions.

4. Mirza Ghalib

Through your being it became clear to human thought
how far the wing of the bird of imagination can reach.

You were all spirit; the gathering of poetry was your body;
you graced the gathering, and stayed hidden from it too.

Your eye longs to see that beauty
which lies hidden in all things as the burning of life.

The gathering of existence takes its wealth from your lute,
as the silence of the mountains does from the songs of the stream.

Nature's springtime comes from the paradise of your imagination;
from the field of your thought whole worlds spring up like grass.

Life lies hidden in the playfulness of your pen;
the lips of the picture move with the power of speech.

Speech takes a hundred prides in your miraculous lips;
the Pleiades stand lost in wonder at the height of your flight.

The beauty of meaning is given in sacrifice to your style;
the bud of Delhi laughs at the rose of Shiraz.

Ah, you lie at rest in ruined Delhi,
while your fellow singer sleeps in the garden of Weimar.

No one can equal you in the grace of speech
unless imagination sits side by side with perfect thought.

Alas, what has become of the land of Hindustan!
Ah, you who taught the subtle eye how to see,

the tresses of Urdu still wait upon the comb;
this candle still longs for the moth's heart-burning.

O Jahanabad, O cradle of learning and art,
your roofs and doors are all a silent lament.

In every particle of you the sun and moon lie sleeping;
countless pearls lie hidden in your dust;

but is there buried in you another such pride of the age?
Is there hidden in you another such lustrous pearl?

5. The Mountain Cloud

My nest touches the sky, so high it is;
I am the mountain cloud, and my skirt scatters flowers.

Now the desert, now the garden is my home;
city and wilderness are mine, the sea is mine, the forest mine.

When I wish to sleep in some valley,
the green of the mountain is my velvet bed.

Nature has taught me to scatter pearls,
to sing the camel-song for the she-camel of the beloved Mercy,

to lift the grief from the peasant's withered heart,
to be the splendour of the young people's gathering in the garden.

I become tresses and spread over the face of being;
I am combed into order by the comb of the storm wind's wave.

I leave the eye of hope pining from afar
when I pass silently over some village.

When I come wandering to the bank of a stream,
I put the earrings of whirlpools on the canal.

I am the hope of the green of the young field;
I am the child of the sea, the foster child of the sun.

I gave the mountain spring the roar of the ocean,
and I set the birds lost in song.

Standing over the grass I said, "Arise!",
and I gave the flower bud its love of smiling.

Through my bounty the peasants' huts on the mountain's skirt
are the very image of royal chambers.

6. A Spider and a Fly

One day a spider began to say to a fly:
"Every day you pass by this way,

but the luck of my little hut has never woken;
not even by mistake have you set foot here.

If you do not meet strangers, that is nothing;
but one should not keep so aloof from one's own.

If you come into my house, it is an honour to me;
there is the stair in front, if you would like to come."

When the fly heard what the spider said, she answered:
"Sir, play this trick on some fool.

A fly will never come into this net;
whoever climbs your stair never comes down again."

The spider said, "Well! You take me for a cheat!
There can be no one in the world as foolish as you.

I only wanted to please you; otherwise
there was nothing in it for me.

You have come flying from God knows where;
what is wrong if you rest a while in my house?

There are many things in this house to show you;
from outside this little hut looks small.

Fine curtains hang over the doors;
I have decorated the walls with mirrors.

Beds are ready for the comfort of guests;
not everyone has such things."

The fly said, "Very well, all this is fine, but
do not hope that I will come to your house.

God save me from those soft beds!
Whoever falls asleep on them can never get up again."

Hearing her words, the spider said in his heart:
"How shall I catch her? The wretch is clever.

A hundred things are done in the world by flattery;
look, everyone in the world is a slave to flattery."

Thinking this, he said to the fly: "Madam,
God has given you a great rank.

Whoever has once seen you
falls in love with your looks.

Your eyes are shining splinters of diamond;
God has adorned your head with a plume.

This beauty, this dress, this grace, this neatness,
and then, the wonder of it, this singing as you fly!"

When the fly heard this flattery she melted,
and said, "I have no fear of you.

I think the habit of refusing is bad;
the truth is that it is not good to break a heart."

She said this and flew from her place;
when she came near, the spider leapt and caught her.

He had been hungry for many days; now that she was in his hands
he sat at home at ease and ate the fly.

7. A Mountain and a Squirrel

A mountain was saying to a squirrel:
"If you had any shame, you would go and drown yourself.

You are a tiny thing, and so proud: what a wonder!
Such brains, such sense, such understanding: what a wonder!

It is God's marvel that worthless things become somebodies,
that the senseless set up as men of discernment.

What are you beside my grandeur?
The very earth is low before my glory.

Where are you blessed with what I have?
How can a poor animal compare with a mountain?"

Hearing this the squirrel said: "Mind your tongue!
These are childish things; put them out of your heart.

If I am not big like you, what does it matter?
You too, after all, are not small like me.

Every single thing shows the power of God;
one is big, one small: this is His wisdom.

He made you big in the world;
He taught me to climb trees.

You have not the strength to take a single step;
you are nothing but bigness; what other virtue is there in you?

If you are so big, show me a skill like mine:
just crack this betel nut and show me!

Nothing in the world is useless;
nothing is bad in the workshop of Nature."

8. A Cow and a Goat

Somewhere there was a green pasture,
its ground all spring from end to end.

How can the scene of that spring be told?
Clear streams flowed on every side,

there were countless pomegranate trees
and shady pipal trees;

cool, cool breezes came
and the voices of birds.

Near a stream a goat,
grazing along, came out from somewhere.

When she stopped and looked about,
she found a cow standing near.

First she bowed and greeted her,
then spoke politely thus:

"Well, madam, how are you?"
The cow said, "Well enough.

Somehow, good or bad, my days pass;
my life is a life of misery.

My very life is at stake, what can I say?
My fate is bad, what can I say?

I look at the ways of God
and weep at the wicked.

The poor have no power;
what was written in our fate has come to pass.

Let no one do good to man;
God forbid that anyone should have to deal with him!

If I give less milk he grumbles;
if I grow thin he sells me and eats the money.

He enslaves me with his tricks;
with what deceits he tames me!

I rear his children;
I put life into them with my milk.

This evil is the return for good;
O my God, I cry to You for justice!"

Hearing this whole story the goat
said, "Such a complaint is not right.

A true word tastes bitter,
but I will speak the plain truth before God.

This pasture, this cool, cool breeze,
this green grass and this shade:

where should we have such joys?
Where these, and where we poor dumb creatures?

These pleasures are owed to man;
all these delights are owed to him.

It is through him that we live;
is captivity better for us, or freedom?

In the forests there are a hundred dangers;
God save us from life there!

His kindness to us is great;
it does not become us to complain of him.

If you understand the worth of comfort,
never complain of man."

Hearing this the cow was ashamed
and repented of her complaint against man.

She weighed good and bad in her heart,
and after some thought she said:

"The goat is a small creature indeed,
but the goat's words go to the heart."

9. A Child's Prayer

My wish comes to my lips as a prayer:
O God, let my life be like a candle.

Let the world's darkness go because of me;
let everywhere be bright with my shining.

Let me be the beauty of my homeland
as a flower is the beauty of the garden.

O Lord, let my life be like the moth's;
O Lord, let me love the candle of knowledge.

Let my work be to stand up for the poor,
to love the suffering and the weak.

My God, keep me from evil;
lead me on the path that is good.

10. Sympathy

On the branch of a tree, all alone,
a nightingale sat, sad at heart.

It said: "Night has come upon me;
I spent the day flying and pecking for food.

How shall I reach my nest?
Darkness has spread over everything."

Hearing the nightingale's sighs and cries,
a firefly spoke up from close by:

"I am here to help you with all my heart,
though I am only a tiny insect.

Why grieve that the night is dark?
I will light up the way for you.

God has given me a torch;
He made me shine and made me a lamp."

Those are the good people in the world
who are of use to others.

11. A Mother's Dream

One night I slept and saw this dream,
which made my distress grow greater.

I saw that I was going somewhere;
it was dark and I could not find the way.

Every hair on me trembled with fear;
I could hardly lift my foot for terror.

When I took a little courage and went on,
I saw there was a line of boys,

dressed in clothes like emerald,
with lighted lamps in all their hands.

They moved silently one behind another;
God knows where they were going.

I was thinking this when my son
came into sight in that company.

He was at the back and did not walk fast;
the lamp in his hands was not burning.

I knew him and said, "My life!
Where have you come, leaving me?

I am restless in our parting;
every day I thread garlands of tears.

You did not care for us at all;
you went off and left us: fine faithfulness you have shown!"

When the child saw my anguish
he turned his face and answered thus:

"My parting makes you weep,
and there is no good in it for me."

Saying this he was silent a while,
then showed me the lamp and said:

"Do you understand what has happened to it?
Your tears have put it out!"

12. The Bird's Complaint

I remember the days gone by,
the springtime in the garden, the chirping of all the birds,

where now is that freedom of my own nest,
coming as I pleased and going as I pleased?

My heart is wounded whenever I remember
the buds smiling at the dewdrops' tears,

that sweet, sweet face, that delicate little form
that made my nest a home.

Its songs do not reach my cage;
if only my release were in my own power!

How unlucky I am, longing for home!
My companions are in our homeland, and I lie in prison.

Spring has come, the flower buds are laughing,
and I sit in this dark house weeping over my fate.

O God, to whom shall I tell the sorrow of this prison?
I am afraid I shall die of grief here in this cage.

Since I was parted from the garden, this is how it is:
my heart is eating grief, and grief is eating my heart.

Listeners, do not be pleased, taking this for singing:
this sound is the cry of hurt hearts.

Set me free, you who imprisoned me!
I am a voiceless prisoner; let me go and take my blessing.

13. Questions to Those Who Sleep in the Dust

The bright sun has hidden; the veil has lifted from the face of evening;
the tresses of evening lie spread over the shoulder of being.

This readiness to wear black is mourning for someone;
the assembly of Nature is in mourning for the sun.

The sky is casting a spell on the lips of speech;
the eye of the night's magician is on the waking eye.

The wave of the wind is plunged in the river of silence;
yes, but from far off comes the sound of a caravan bell.

My heart, weary of the world in the restlessness of love,
has drawn me far from the world's uproar.

I am the spectator of a scene of despair;
I sit with the sleepers in the corner of loneliness.

Be still a moment, restlessness of the heart! Let me sit down,
and let me shed a few tears on this settlement.

O you who are drunk on the wine of heedlessness, where do you live?
Tell me something of the land where you live.

Is it too some house of wonder, of today and tomorrow?
Is there some show of the war of the elements?

Is man there too shut in the fortress of grief?
In that country too is the heart of man helpless?

Does the moth there too burn to death in the candle's flame?
In that garden too is there the tale of the rose and the nightingale?

Here a single line of verse draws the heart from the breast;
does the heart melt there too with the warmth of poetry?

Here ties and kinships are a torment to the soul;
in that garden too are there such sharp thorns?

In this world there is one livelihood and a hundred calamities;
is the soul in that land free of this care?

Is there lightning there too, a peasant and a harvest?
Are there caravans, and the fear of the highwayman?

Do they gather straws there too for a nest?
Do they worry about bricks and clay for a house?

Are men there too strangers to their own true nature?
Are they mad there too about distinctions of community and creed?

Does the garden there not weep at the nightingale's cry?
Is there no pain of the heart there, as in this world?

Is Paradise a garden, or a resting place?
Or is it the name of the unveiled face of eternal Beauty?

Is Hell a device for burning away sin?
Is a purpose of correction hidden in the flames of fire?

In that land is there flight instead of walking?
What is the secret of what the people of the earth call death?

Here all that is and is not is the stuff of the heart's unrest;
in that country too is man's knowledge limited?

Does the parted heart find comfort there in seeing?
Or do the Sinais there too say, "You shall not see Me"?

Does the soul there find rest in seeking?
Is man there too a victim of the love of asking?

Ah, is that kingdom too filled with darkness,
or is it all light with the radiance of love?

Tell me the secret that is in this turning dome:
death is a thorn that pricks the heart of man.

14. The Candle and the Moth

O candle, why does the moth love you?
Why is this restless life sacrificed to you?

Your grace keeps it quivering like quicksilver;
have you taught it the ways of love?

It circles round the place where you shine;
has the lightning of your glance burned it?

Is there rest for its soul in the torment of death?
Is there eternal life in your flame?

If your light were not in the house of grief that is the world,
the tree of this burnt heart's longing would not be green.

To fall before you is its prayer;
in its tiny heart is the delight of burning and melting.

It has something of the passion of the lover of the eternal Beauty;
you are a little Sinai, and it a tiny Moses.

A moth, and the love of beholding light!
A tiny insect, and the longing for light!

15. Reason and Heart

One day Reason said this to the Heart:
"I am the guide of the lost and the strayed.

I am on the earth, yet I pass through the heavens;
see how far I reach!

My work in the world is guidance;
I am like Khizr of the blessed foot.

I am the interpreter of the book of being;
I show forth the glory of the Almighty.

You are only a drop of blood, but
I am the envy of the priceless ruby."

Hearing this the Heart said: "All this is true,
but look at me too, and see what I am.

You understand the secret of being,
and I see it with my eyes.

Your concern is with outward forms,
and I know the inner reality.

Knowledge comes from you, but gnosis from me;
you seek God, I show God.

The end of knowledge is restlessness,
and I am the cure for that disease.

You are the candle of the gathering of truth;
I am the lamp of the assembly of beauty.

You are tied to time and space;
I am a bird that knows the lote-tree of the furthest heaven.

On what a height is my station:
I am the throne of the Lord of Majesty!"

16. The Cry of Pain

I am burning; I find no ease on any side;
yes, drown me, O ocean of Ganges water!

This land of ours stirs up a terrible discord;
what union? Here nearness itself is mixed with parting.

Instead of oneness, this estrangement is a calamity;
division among the grains of one harvest is a calamity.

In a garden through whose flowers the breeze of brotherhood has not blown
there is no pleasure in singing.

I am dying for the delight of true nearness;
I shrink from the meeting of wave and shore.

The poet of miraculous speech is a grain that shows the harvest;
if there is no harvest, where is the being of that grain?

How can beauty show itself when no one is drawn to it?
What use is burning to the candle if there is no gathering?

Why does my love of speech not turn to silence?
Why does this lustre not leave my mirror?

When did the delight of speech ever loosen our tongues?
When the fire of strife had burned the garden down!

17. The Sun

O Sun, you are the soul and life of the world;
you bind together the book of creation and space.

You cause being and not-being to appear;
through you the garden of what is and is not is green.

This show of the elements stands by you alone;
the urge to live in everything comes from you.

Everything is firm through your shining;
your burning and your music are life itself.

That Sun by which there is light in the world,
which is heart and mind, the living soul and awareness:

O Sun, give us the light of awareness;
give light with your radiance to the eye of the mind.

You furnish the gathering of existence;
you are the god of those who dwell in the heights and the depths.

Your perfection is in the being of every living thing;
your appearing is in the chain of the mountains.

You are the sustainer of the life of everything;
you are the crowned king of those born of light.

You have no beginning and no end;
your light is free of the bonds of first and last.

18. The Candle

O candle, in the gathering of the world I too am in pain,
my cry tied up in a knot like a seed of rue on the fire.

Love gave you the heat of inner burning,
and made me a seller of roses, of tears red as the evening sky.

Whether you are the candle of a feast or the candle of a tomb,
in every state you have been in the arms of tears of grief.

Your eye sees one, like the lovers who know the secret;
my eye is a source of the turmoil of distinctions.

Your light is the same in the Kaaba and in the idol-house;
I am caught in the distinction of temple and sanctuary.

There is the glory of a sigh in your black smoke;
is some heart hidden in the place where you shine?

You burn because you are far from the lightning of divine glory;
those without pain think your burning is light.

You are burning, and you know nothing of it;
you can see, but you do not see your inner burning.

I am quivering like quicksilver in the passion of unrest,
and I know too the unrest of the restless heart.

This too was some whim of One who needs nothing:
He gave me awareness of my own melting.

This awareness of mine keeps me restless;
a thousand fire-temples sleep in this spark.

This distinction of high and low comes from it;
fragrance in the rose and intoxication in wine come from it.

This awareness is the garden and the nightingale, the rose and its scent;
this awareness is the root of the struggle of I and you.

On the morning of eternity, when Beauty stole the heart of Love,
the word "Be!" taught the soul of Love to burn.

The command was: see the spring of the garden of "Be!";
take one eye and see a thousand troubled dreams.

Do not ask me for news of the veil of existence;
the evening of parting was the morning of my appearing.

Those days are gone when I knew nothing of captivity;
my nest adorned the tree of Sinai.

I am a captive, and I think the cage a garden;
I think the house of grief of exile my home.

The memory of home became a sadness without cause,
now a longing to see, now a love of seeking.

O candle, see the height of the deceit of fancy;
see the end of him to whom the dwellers of heaven bowed!

I am a theme of parting, a sign as high as the Pleiades;
I am the strain of the nature of the Poet of creation.

When He composed me He wished me to be seen;
He wrote me at the head of the diwan of being.

The pearl is content to live in a handful of dust;
the setting may be weak, but the theme is lofty.

All this is the fault of the eye that sees wrongly;
the world is the showing of the glory of the love of awareness.

This chain of time and space is a noose,
a collar on the neck of Beauty that loves to be seen.

I long for the goal, and I have lost the way;
O candle, I am a prisoner of the deceit of the eye.

He is Himself the hunter and the ring of the net of cruelty,
Himself the roof of the sanctuary and the bird on the sanctuary roof!

Am I beauty, or love all melting?
It is not clear whether I am pride or humble need.

But beware lest the old secret reach the lips,
lest the tale of the gallows and the rope begin again!