Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: You have come, so what is this veil

You have come, so what is this veil?
Uncover your face: what is the veil for?

The heart will not stay still in my breast:
O Lord, what is this restlessness of it?

Yesterday, drawing his sword, he said to me:
"Just look, see what a gleam it has!"

I do not know whether my own *diwan* (collected poems)
is an elegy, or what kind of book it is.

Those who died, slain by kindness alone:
why then, sir, this anger at them?

With others you are so unveiled:
why is it only from me that you hide?

O Mushafi, get up, the sun is here:
madman, why sleep so long?

Ghazal: See with what grace she comes; just look at the airs

See with what grace she comes; just look at the airs!
See with what style each step falls; just look at the manner!

She walks, spurning the peacock that shows itself like a fairy:
just look at the gait of that coquettish idol!

One movement of her lips burned a hundred thousand:
Jesus had this power; just look at your miracle! [TN: Jesus revived the dead with his breath; her lips do the opposite.]

If I ever cast a stolen glance at her,
she weighs it in her eyes: just look at the glance-reader!

I passed beating my wings beyond the battlements of the Throne:
God, what a reach! Just look at my flight!

Alas that for all my striving
no understanding ever came about with her: just look at my discordant star!

What grace there is in the speech of that infidel idol!
Leave aside the sweet words: just look at the voice!

This whole *diwan* is in disorder, Mushafi, sir:
why talk of the end? Just look at the beginning!

Ghazal: This is all that comes to mind: to cry out, to weep

This is all that comes to mind: to cry out, to weep;
by weeping alone to gladden my heart a little, to weep.

Why do you sit so silent, O companion?
Am I the one who must begin some lament, and weep?

This passes through my heart: to go into some desert,
to free my spirit a little from grief, and weep.

This is why you have kept me alive in separation:
that is, so that whenever I remember your face, I weep.

O Mushafi, it comes into my heart that now I too
should make you my master in weeping, and weep.

Ghazal: We burn so much in the fire of grief

We burn so much in the fire of grief
that our bones melt like a candle.

The same wilderness, and the same torn collar,
as long as hands and feet still move.

Seeing the clearness of your face,
mirrors rub dust on their faces.

There is such a surge of tears in my eyes
it is as if wells were boiling over.

Seeing your cheek, in the garden
hundreds of roses change colour.

Do not ask me about the boldness of idols' eyes:
in their glances they pierce the heart.

Just watch the Shaikh's gait:
in a moment now he will slip.

Without getting our heart's desire from that lane,
are we, Mushafi, the kind to leave it?

Ghazal: Today, turned to blood, the heart is close to dripping

Today, turned to blood, the heart is close to dripping:
if there is a lancet's point, yes, the heart is fit to be stirred.

O sky, I beg you, do not put it out:
for the poor, the heart is a lamp in the dark night.

Setting several swollen scars before him,
Love said: "Take it up, the heart is yours to own."

I wonder where he spent his life:
with such ignorance, the heart is neither Turk nor Tajik! [TN: sense uncertain; the line seems to say the heart is of no known people, i.e. uncouth.]

Let go of talk of the beloved's waist, sir:
do not set foot in it, heart, this road is narrow.

Make the robe of scars your garment day and night,
for this robe fits your stature exactly, heart.

Mushafi, for one thing I am struck by a bold eye;
on top of that, day and night, my heart is set on mocking me.

Ghazal: Today tears go toward the eyelashes

Today tears go toward the eyelashes:
tears make the Ganges flow backward.

The fire of the heart is not put out at all,
and tears only burn my spirit more.

The heart's blood is spent, but mine
come drop by drop today, the tears.

So long as the eye is equipped for weeping,
how the tears boil in the heart!

On the gold braid of your bodice
whose tears are these that ripple?

The pearls that are on your anklet:
tears lock eyes with them.

Like a candle in a basin, when
do my tears, Mushafi, stay contained?

Take care of them, or in the gathering
the tears will raise a flood any moment.

Ghazal: It is not easy to open her door alone

It is not easy to open her door alone:
now we must come to terms with the doorkeeper.

Had we been God's counsellors, we would have said:
"O Lord, make the night of union long."

What a turn of fortune, that he now greets me,
the one I taught in childhood how to pray!

Since the heart's blood boils up every moment,
keeping the secret has become hard for us.

How could anyone get his way with her by one humble plea,
when she knows a hundred ways of being coy?

These drunken gazelles strike in the end:
heart, keep a little clear of her eyes.

O sigh, I will believe in you if it has some effect on her heart;
otherwise, what a task it is to melt a stone!

The night of union would turn bright morning in a moment:
cruel one, do not undo the ties of your robe.

O Mushafi, now two things remain as memorials of the age:
from her, coyness; from me, humble pleading.

Ghazal: If coming is so impossible, then come one night in a dream

If coming is so impossible, then come one night in a dream:
for God's sake, cruel one, come to me quickly.

I will give you the letter this moment, on this condition:
messenger, come back from her with an answer.

If you are so set on the beloved's lane,
I am coming too; restless heart, come!

These weary eyes are open, waiting for you:
O morning, show your face; O sun, come!

So that the darkness of this night of separation may pass,
O envy of the moon, come to my house unveiled.

There is running water, and green, and the beloved's face:
Saqi, at such a time come quickly with wine.

Let us weep well together, embracing, a little while:
what are you looking at, heart without patience or strength? Come!

In the ocean of the world, delay in coming and going is not allowed:
go like a drop, and come back like a bubble. [TN: "dir shud amad", Persian, "came late".]

Today I am to make a sacrifice at your door:
you too, take up the sword and come, for the merit of it.

Perhaps seeing you she will feel pity, Mushafi:
come before her, then, with tearful eyes.

Ghazal: Shall I put out my eyes, or break my heart

Shall I put out my eyes, or break my heart,
or seize Love by the neck and wring it?

My heart is a single drop of blood at my side: so how
can I squeeze it out through my eyelashes for your sake?

If I could find that startled deer on a dark night,
I would become a hunting dog and maul it.

When the tailor of fate sewed my robe,
it did not occur to me to add a seam to it.

That stone-heart has fallen in love with a stone-heart:
it comes into my mind to smash my head with stones.

I sit idle after all; O tears, what am I to do?
Why not bring a few gold braids, so I can twist them?

May Mushafi's fault be pardoned, sir:
if you say so, I will bring him and bury him.

Ghazal: With the surge of tears my eyes are a village well

With the surge of tears my eyes are a village well;
the tears go round in them like a water-wheel.

I had not understood you well:
you minstrel's boy, you are a great rascal.

We drank down the flask of wine
gulp, gulp, the moment we took it from the Saqi's hand.

Your arrow of a glance is such an infidel!
Just for a moment, take the veil from your face.

I took it for a snake, and then I saw
the lock of someone's hair in the mirror.

What they call the span of existence
is a single gallop of the steed of life.

Mushafi, the down has come upon his cheek:
those days are gone; that season has turned.

Where no one ever sat for long,
now night and day there is a crowd.

Ghazal: Ah, in the house where I saw the face of a fairy

Ah, in the house where I saw the face of a fairy,
now the face of mourning appears.

Neither that manner, nor voice, nor coquetry, nor grace:
so suddenly the face of that radiance has been wiped away.

Now her image roams before my eyes there
where someone used to roam like a mountain partridge.

Since she went, the heart in my breast
is a guest of a few breaths, like the lamp at dawn.

No news of me reaches her, nor of her me:
a strange state of not-knowing has set in.

Whose name shall I say? For the sake of one rose
tears go from my eyes like heart-red carnelian.

Mushafi, this is my only thought now: let us see if the sky
will show me again the face of the beloved who travelled away.

Ghazal: Ah, who is our confidant

Ah, who is our confidant?
Who is ours? An unkind fortune.

Whose shall we call ourselves? Besides you,
coquettish idol, who is ours?

He tells what is at the bottom of the heart:
what tell-tale do we have like that?

If you yourself did not carry us off, then
what is our longing for flight?

Union does not happen; I do not know
who it is that stands in our way.

Seeing the mirror, she said in wonder:
"Who is this that paints our face?"

Though we exchanged glances with her,
who here is the glance-reader we have?

On the night of separation, but for the hookah's breath,
who is the friend that keeps us company?

If you yourself are indifferent, then,
O all-coquetry, who is ours?

Mushafi, there is us, and loneliness:
it is true, who is our partner?

Ghazal: Now take me in your arms, sir

Now take me in your arms, sir;
come to me too, some night, sir.

If I am sulking with you, then
come and win me back yourself, sir.

Stay sitting here in front of me;
for God's sake, do not go, sir.

This contrariness is not nice at all:
do not frown every moment, sir.

You keep no veil from the rival:
do not swear false oaths, sir.

We would be done with such a life:
do not burn our spirit so, sir.

Either forget your love for the rival,
or put us out of your heart, sir.

You are the Messiah of your time:
bring the dead man back to life, sir.

Mushafi, sir, the beloved will come and meet you:
do not writhe so much, sir.

Ghazal: You have not yet come to know the rank of your own beauty, sir

You have not yet come to know the rank of your own beauty, sir,
or that in your garden there is no fresh-voiced bird singing a *ghazal* (lyric poem).

When I go to the beloved's lane, Death says, taking pity:
"Wronged one, do not go that way; no one has come back alive from there."

He was poor, friendless and wretched; I will tell you where to find him:
the tomb of your victim was the one in which no lamp was lit.

When I go to the physician, he tells me in friendship:
"Look for a livelihood too; this is not the station of poverty and self-loss."

Love keeps my head bowed; do not ask my state, what can I say?
I am a bubble, the glass of the sea; my breaking makes no sound.

Your lowly ones did not beat their heads in the desert so much
that the whirlwind carried the dust from there toward the sky.

I am not the breeze of garden and spring, nor one who dies for the beloved's face:
I am a stranger to city and land; I have no place in temple or Kaaba.

The buds of your tree of beauty are not yet open, fairy:
even the breeze that came did not touch them as if it knew.

When it goes into your tresses, it comes back telling only my state:
not even my mortal enemy is so much of a musk-opener as this breeze. [TN: sense uncertain; the breeze "opens the musk-pod" and spreads the news.]

I neither live in the garden nor sing its song:
whoever looks for me, where would he look? I am no nest of the *huma* (bird of fortune).

One is wounded by a thorn, one is writhing in blood from spring:
it is my courage alone, Mushafi, that I complain of no one.

Ghazal: Sometimes we peep from this side, sometimes we look from that

Sometimes we peep from this side, sometimes we look from that:
in short, we see her face by a hundred arts.

Since the day fortune made us her neighbour,
we see that envy of fairies from our own house.

Those who go mad over you behind so many veils:
God knows from which side they see you.

Where have we the leisure from weeping to look at mole and down?
But we see your likeness through this wet eye.

Why are you angry, cruel one, when we look?
What do we take of yours? We only look, a single glance.

We gain nothing else by living in her lane,
only this much: now and then we look through the crack of the door.

When, Mushafi, we begin to look in her street,
we turn a little too, and look round for fear of disgrace.

Ghazal: You seem so very lovely to me, my friend

You seem so very lovely to me, my friend,
that love for you comes over me helplessly.

Damn the fowler, whose neglect
kept me in the corner of the cage in the season of spring.

Where am I to go, friends? Like a beast caught in the ring of the hunt,
her eyelashes have made me their prey.

For all my being lost, you ignore me,
and then on top of that you scold me again and again.

What is my fault? The Maker should have
given me patience and calm in the measure of her beauty.

Is it a mischief, or a fairy, or magic, or a calamity?
Whose eyes are these that I have met face to face?

O Mushafi, with her image before me,
on the night of grief I do not find a moment's rest.

Ghazal: Since without you the heart is so weary of life

Since without you the heart is so weary of life,
death is better for me, friend, than life.

If I die, my weeping will be over:
my blood-raining eyes complain of life.

I am slain by that hidden beauty who
has drawn a wall between us out of life.

If we died we would be free of the pains and griefs of this place:
like Khizr, we are helpless against life. [TN: Khizr drank the water of life and cannot die.]

Because we knew of the torments here,
we refused life while we were still in non-being.

If we had not lived, why would we have borne these humiliations?
We have taken a sword-blow on the heart from life.

It is true, how long can one bear everyone's rudeness?
Now Mushafi feels ashamed of life.

Ghazal: That idol has no fear of God

That idol has no fear of God;
if a servant falls out, he falls out with God.

Though people too may know my state,
it is not hidden, anyway, from God.

Ours is to sigh, "ah, ah":
to give it effect comes from God.

We took it as our gain
even if some harm reached us from God.

Since I saw that playful idol
my gaze has turned away from God.

There he is busy at his games,
and here things are going well with God.

This self-display is not good at all:
yes, playful idol, fear God!

Godhead and selfhood are at enmity:
do not make so much of self before God.

All these people know God, but
no one gives any news of God.

O Mushafi, there is no lack there:
ask whatever you wish, but of God.

Ghazal: The moonlight reminds me of that envy of the moon

The moonlight reminds me of that envy of the moon:
every night the moonlight comes and torments me.

The moonlight mixes beauty into the flowing water:
in every wave the moonlight seems dissolved.

Whenever we go and sit on the river bank,
what glitter of its own the moonlight shows us!

At the hour I prepare the wine-gathering,
the moonlight comes and spreads a carpet of moonlight.

Go into the desert and see how every dry stream bed
the moonlight makes the colour of the stream of milk. [TN: the "stream of milk" that Farhad cut through the mountain for Shirin.]

When it sees your milk-white body, sir,
the moonlight turns to water out of shame.

Darling, the nights are dark: meet me now, while it is so,
or else, as soon as the moon rises, the moonlight comes.

If she too knew its worth, then without any urging
the moonlight would bring the sulking idol to me.

Why should I not burn in the night of separation, Mushafi?
Without my love, the moonlight burns my spirit.

Ghazal: In this love and madness the fear is not for the collar

In this love and madness the fear is not for the collar:
this love is such that we fear for our life.

It is not easy to cross the river of love:
here even Noah's ark fears the flood.

She passes through the bazaar unveiled, for she
has neither fear of Hindu nor dread of Muslim.

My heart writhes in blood from the arrow of your glance,
yet even so, cruel one, it fears your arrowhead.

Here even the doorkeeper fills unbaked pots with water: [TN: an idiom for being humbled, or for doing a hopeless task.]
we are the ones here who fear the doorkeeper.

May that playful one not come out at the time of prayer:
O Mushafi, that is the devil I fear.

Ghazal: Do not make me long for you so much, my life

Do not make me long for you so much, my life:
meeting me alone, sometimes take me in your arms.

Seeing us, do not hide behind the curtain:
we are your own, sir; be shy of the stranger.

This is a bad habit in you, heart, by God:
seeing that idol, do not stand there struck dumb.

If my hand too ever reaches you, I will understand well:
show this thumb to someone else. [TN: "showing the thumb", a gesture of refusal or mockery.]

If you do not come in the waking world,
then come sometimes in a dream, O comfort of my life.

O morning breeze, scattering a few roses on others' graves,
come sometimes toward the graves of the poor too.

We too, my darling, are not so useless:
sometimes give us some task to do.

This grief will devour you one day, Mushafi:
do not grieve so much for the heart that is gone.

Ghazal: When did I not understand this death

When did I not understand this death?
Every breath I took to be the last breath.

Your manner, enough, now make no noise:
O fiery lament, I have understood.

Death became bearable to me
when I took poison for honey.

I read the written fate of all creation,
but did not understand the writing on my own brow.

Like a comb, sometimes, beneath your coils,
O ambergris-scented lock, I understood.

What use is sighing breath after breath?
It is the pain of a sad heart; I understood.

After that no doubt found a way in,
once I had understood a thing with certainty.

When stubbornness was gone, in every word
you understood: here and there, I understood.

What is her hair-thin waist, O reason?
You understood; I did not understand.

Mushafi, I quickly wrote a *ghazal* in that
which I took to be a new *zamin* (metre and rhyme).

Ghazal: What lovely, lovely words that delicate one has

What lovely, lovely words that delicate one has,
whose eyelashes are knives, whose eyes are daggers!

How could we not take poison over this:
with us, the same reserve; with the rivals, friendship.

Just consider the sketch on the page of the earth:
what forms the Maker has drawn on it!

The state of my heart's burning is something apart:
when did quicksilver and lightning have such restlessness?

Why should Majnun not envy those litters
inside which ride two together?

At whose house were you awake last night, darling, that your
eyelashes are so greedy and your eyes so heavy with drink?

Though outwardly we have given up hope of union with her,
in the heart there are a hundred kinds of hoping.

What are you asking, companion, about Mushafi's state?
The nights are dark, and there is counting of stars.

Ghazal: When she put *vasma* (indigo dye) on her fingertips and set the henna

When she put *vasma* (indigo dye) on her fingertips and set the henna,
how charming the henna looked to me!

Not a single gap was left anywhere on her hands:
with such skill the infidel applied the henna.

When, sitting there, the mood for colour came on her,
she kneaded it and mixed henna into the petals of the tulip.

I am slain by her refinement: first,
she had the henna bound on her hands with *bangla* betel leaves.

Then look at the cursed girl's second piece of good housekeeping:
she tied it with kerchiefs and kept the henna from smudging.

And hear this cleverness: when she started out of sleep,
she quickly opened it there and then and washed off the henna.

After that, taking a little phial from the niche,
she rubbed and rubbed her hands with perfume and scented the henna.

Why should Mushafi not bless you? For you, henna,
have made him write one more colourful *ghazal*.

Ghazal: When I wrote the rival's name upside down in her letter

When I wrote the rival's name upside down in her letter, [TN: the source text of this ghazal carries many stray vowel marks; it is printed as found.]
the messenger too brought me back from there an upside-down message.

This Hindu is so contrary toward us Muslims
that even when he writes a letter, he writes it upside down. [TN: Urdu is written right to left, Hindi left to right.]

Neither that Saqi nor those drinkers are in the tavern:
now the cup stays set upside down on the mouth of the jar.

For one thing, you have scattered the leaves of my heart's book; [TN: *sipara*, a section of the Quran.]
and on top of that you lay the blame on me, the other way round.

Such contrariness is still in the nature of the sky
that morning and evening the age looks upside down.

The blackness of the night of separation did not turn to white day:
O turning of the days, you did not turn this page.

When the fowler drew the rope of the snare, right there
the snare came down, upside down, on the captives' heads.

Mushafi, you were ready just now to set out on a journey:
why is it all turning back toward home, the other way round?

Ghazal: Last night, when there was a riot of fire toward her street

Last night, when there was a riot of fire toward her street,
from whose sigh had a spark of fire fallen there?

With what fiery-natured one is it at war, that always
every flame of fire is bare like a naked sword?

Their cartridges are kept filled in their pouches:
that is why every sepoy is wary of fire. [TN: *tilanga*, a native soldier in the Company's service.]

When did the wave of lightning not come out red from beneath it?
When did the twilight not dye the shirt of fire in blood?

Its burning does not depend on the candle's flame:
Mushafi, wherever it is, the moth is a lover of fire.

Ghazal: From this thorny garden, like the breeze, run

From this thorny garden, like the breeze, run!
Wildness says only this: break the chain and run!

When did buyers fall on it like this?
The moment it touched your foot, the henna's fortune rose. [TN: a pun on *bhag*, "run" and "fortune".]

What can I say of the playfulness of your image? Alas,
at night it came before me, and ran away from in front of me.

When the mountain partridge sees her gait,
it says this in its heart: "Steal this gait and run!"

When the ascetic, having made his ablutions, stood at the pool,
it occurred to a drunkard: "Now push him in and run!"

When I went and stopped a little by the sea of love,
from the lip of the shore came just this cry: "Run!"

O Mushafi, the snake of the sky is a highway robber of men:
if you can run from it, for God's sake, run!

Ghazal: The feet that brought us into that lane

The feet that brought us into that lane
staggered the moment they touched it.

Alas for my fate, I was left behind,
and my companions hurried on.

At every step there is the corpse of one she has slain:
where now can a foot be set in that lane?

Those who came from your street:
I put their feet to my eyes.

Wet by my tears of blood,
the footprints there are trees of coral.

Where has the caravan of non-being gone?
No sound of footsteps comes at all.

Before the station of self-loss
no foot goes into the valley of "we and I".

Mushafi, for the travellers on the path of love,
such a station is the end of the way.

Ghazal: In this corner of seclusion there is loneliness, and I

In this corner of seclusion there is loneliness, and I;
there is union with the beloved of the imagination, and I.

Once my foot would not step out of the house;
now in the city's lanes there is disgrace, and I.

In the desert where the camel's foot never passed,
in that desert there is a madman like Majnun, and I.

I will not heed the counsellor, nor pay any mind to my companion:
in this love and passion there is self-will, and I.

However much the madness of love is the enemy of reason,
O Mushafi, even so there is wisdom, and I.

Ghazal: From these eyes no water came out

From these eyes no water came out,
nothing but pure blood came out.

I asked for a kiss, but
no answer came out of that mouth.

We looked at each other, it is true,
but nothing came of the veil of the heart.

In my head, but for longing for you,
like a bubble, nothing came out.

He used to make great claims on me,
but at the time of reckoning nothing came out.

When I searched the heart in my breast,
nothing came out but the smoke of roasting meat.

The one we took for a friend, Mushafi,
that wretch turned out to be nothing.

Ghazal: Hey, dandy sir, where is this gait from

Hey, dandy sir, where is this gait from,
this swaggering gait you always walk?

We have not seen such airs of walking;
we have seen the gait of the whole world.

Hundreds of thousands are trampled by their airs:
who understands the moves of these idols?

Seeing the partridge, he began to say:
"This one walks with the gait of our house."

Setting up the blindfold chess of love,
you made, for one thing, a testing move.

On top of that, the crooked move of the sky's elephant
became the enemy of my life. [TN: the elephant (*fil*), the chess piece that moves crookedly.]

Mushafi, he has filled out his beard and moustache,
the one whose gait is that of a feeble old man. [TN: sense of this couplet uncertain.]

Ghazal: First of all, there is no getting into your street

First of all, there is no getting into your street;
and if I come, I cannot find where you are.

Since you gave up meeting me,
the whole world, for your sake, will not meet me.

You could come to my house at night on some pretext:
can you not find some such pretext?

What use is it, fool, to be greedy for gold?
Korah's treasure is not found by greed. [TN: Qarun (Korah), proverbial for his wealth.]

Not even by mistake did she say of me,
"What has happened, that madman is not to be found now?"

I take no pleasure at all in sitting
until my shoulder touches yours.

O Mushafi, master of the art of *rekhta* verse, [TN: *rekhta*, the old name for Urdu poetry.]
I have sifted the world and find no one like you.

Ghazal: First, this style and this gait are a wonder

First, this style and this gait are a wonder;
on top of that, the jingle of your anklet is a wonder.

How could I not run and clasp you to my breast?
This garland of flowers round your neck is a wonder.

Whenever I look, it scatters my heart:
the disorder of that bold forelock is a wonder.

Would that these eyes had not shown me this day:
with such longing, to be denied the sight of you is a wonder.

Is it in the sun to face her?
That is, that flushed cheek is a wonder.

I have no other complaint against you:
this refusal of yours, just when it is time, is a wonder.

Till now we have not been admitted to the sanctuary of union:
in the Kaaba, the veil of door and wall is a wonder.

If it were one wonder, someone might bear it:
your gait is a wonder, your speech is a wonder.

Neither Farhad nor Qais nor Wamiq escaped from love:
it takes the life away; this affliction is a wonder.

O Mushafi, walk a little warily of this longing:
do you hear, sir? That bloodthirsty idol is a wonder.

Ghazal: No friend or companion have we but God

No friend or companion have we but God;
in pain and sorrow no consoler but God.

When I asked the sage, "Who is the cause of 'Be, and it was'?" [TN: *kun fa-yakun*, "Be, and it is", God's word of creation (Quran 36:82).]
he thought and said, "There is no one but God."

When I went to the Kaaba at night and shook the knocker of the door,
this voice came: "Come in, there is no one but God."

If the knower looks with a searching eye into the mirror of the world,
he will understand there is no one showing there but God.

Though the world is other than His Essence, Mushafi,
think again, and the other is no one but God.

Ghazal: He who made all being and place with the one word "Be"

He who made all being and place with the one word "Be"
made you the comfort of the life of the whole world.

God put the scent of His love into it:
He made the heart in man's breast a perfume box.

In this garden my life has always passed like this:
I built a nest here, I built a nest there.

Just look at the labour: the Painter of eternity
took forty days to make the *mim* of your mouth. [TN: *mim*, the letter م, small and round, a figure for the tiny mouth.]

Since on this journey we never reached the stage,
wandering has made us into shifting sand.

Why should the Maker not be proud of His craft?
For what purpose else did He make this garden?

From my heart's blood He drew the likeness of the rose;
taking my lament, He made the moving cypress.

You come, Mushafi: whose wounds are these you have taken?
Who made you the target of the arrow of cruelty?

Your collar is in a hundred pieces, your hem is soaked with blood:
where, cruel one, did you get yourself up like this?

Ghazal: If one who has a heart leaves the world

If one who has a heart leaves the world,
a whole world rises from body and soul.

Come, fellow travellers, it is a blessing,
each step that is taken out of this world.

We keep nothing put by; I do not know
where our expenses come from.

If the veil has not been lifted from her face,
why does an uproar rise from the caravan?

Alas for weakness and impatience
when the curtain rises from between us.

The moth falls back to the same spot
if it rises a little from the candlestick.

Friend, when Mushafi's story is told,
love rises out of that tale.

Ghazal: Does any idol make such trouble in the realm of faith

Does any idol make such trouble in the realm of faith?
Never did I see an idol of her look even in China.

In my creed and the Shaikh's there is only this much difference:
I keep the idol in my hand, he in his sleeve.

Faith has turned to unbelief to such an extent that people
now keep an idol in the ring-stone where the compass for the *qibla* (direction of prayer) should be.

If you bow down to God, Shaikh, do it with care:
even now thousands of idols are buried in the ground.

How can I go to circle the Kaaba, Mushafi?
In the Kaaba's niche there is an idol; in my ring-stone, an idol.

Ghazal: From whose angry glance are we so frightened

From whose angry glance are we so frightened
that for two or four nights we have slept badly?

When did we succeed in getting a kiss from her lips?
We have only been shamed by our desire-seeking heart. [TN: the source reads "dil-e matlab matlab", evidently corrupt; "desire-seeking" is a guess.]

Out of respect we could not kiss the sole of her foot:
that is why we gnaw the palm of regret all night.

We are merchants of clearness of the unclouded heart:
we have brought glassware from the city of Aleppo.

Every day it seeks out some new beauty:
we complain of our own trouble-seeking heart.

Our boat is in the midstream of the sea:
when have we got free of the pull of kindness and anger?

The excesses of her proud gait
we watch, and out of respect say nothing.

Whether a beauty is in a burqa or behind a sheet,
we know her by her bearing, her boldness, her charm.

Wine and flask and the singing Saqi:
in old age we have repented of them all.

The days of life are without savour; come, O Death:
how long we have been sitting here waiting for you!

Has the art become so little that these days, Mushafi,
we feel some fondness in our heart for Arabic verse?

Ghazal: For one thing you sit there having lost my heart, and listen to this

For one thing you sit there having lost my heart, and listen to this:
on top of that you say, "I gave it to you!" There, and listen to this!

You drink wine yourself, and if friends give me the dregs,
you tell them, "Don't give him a thing!" Listen to this!

I have told you all my story, friends:
why sit silent? Tell something yourselves, and listen.

When you sit by me you pinch me:
you have picked up quite a habit there; listen to this!

The strangest cruelty is this: seeing me weep,
you laugh and say, "Weep a little more!" Listen to this!

I still have whole ledgers under my arm, companions:
do not stop so at one word; listen to more.

Mushafi, I have no fear of disgrace:
I must speak my mind; let him say what he likes, and listen.

Ghazal: O night of separation, have you a morning somewhere or not

O night of separation, have you a morning somewhere or not?
O midnight lament, have you any effect or not?

I have staked my life in parting from you:
heedless one, have you any news of it or not?

For an age we have been praising her waist,
but it is not known whether she has a waist or not.

Do not put the needle down; just look, surgeon,
whether my liver's wound is fit for stitching or not.

How pleasing you have found the stage of existence, heart!
Tell the truth: do you mean to journey on from here or not?

You go unveiled and show your face to the rival:
have you any regard for me, envy of the moon, or not?

Just look, unkind idol: in parting from you,
is every pore of mine a weeping eye or not?

Since I lie at her door day and night,
she says to me in irritation, "Have you a home or not?"

Mushafi, you go to her lane all the time:
have you any fear of your own ill fame or not?

Ghazal: O Love, what has become of your power this time

O Love, what has become of your power this time?
Where has the uproar of madness gone? What has become of the chain?

Those who do not treat my madness:
what has become of the planning of the planners?

You do not speak to me now as before:
who knows what fault it was I committed?

We ran and caught you in our arms:
tell us, what has become of your sword now?

The picture I had chosen from the album of the world:
O Mushafi, alas, what has become of that picture?

Ghazal: O grief-stricken one, walk with restraint

O grief-stricken one, walk with restraint,
stopping and stopping at every step.

This manner of the idols is a wonder:
to walk with their hands set on their waists.

As we go from that lane,
we must heave a sigh at every step.

O partridge, where are you, and where that gait?
You will not find such a way of walking even if you die.

O Mushafi, why should I not give way to her?
The lover's way is to walk in fear.

Ghazal: Do not turn away and be shy of my words; listen

Do not turn away and be shy of my words; listen:
I want to say something to you; come over here and listen.

I am not going to face her, friends:
if she has something to say to you, go yourselves and listen.

If you feel like teasing me,
I am rude: whatever you say about me, listen.

Accept what someone says too; this is a kind of stubbornness:
do not torment your lover so much; listen.

If you have the story of *Gul-e Sanobar* with you, sir, [TN: a popular Persian romance.]
here I am, someone to read it out too: bring it, and listen.

O heart and eye, know that its end is bad:
do not grow so greedy at the sight of her; listen.

Mushafi, at least let the messenger say his piece:
do not get so flustered at the very first word; listen.

Ghazal: There was a garden, and in it a nest too

There was a garden, and in it a nest too;
for a few days our food and water were here too.

The nightingale's song pierced the heart,
and the rose's laughter scattered salt on the wound too.

May they burn on the edge of fate's table!
Once this handful of bones was there too.

Before me, did the bird of the garden,
Mushafi, have the nerve to lament too? [TN: the question mark is in the source.]

In the gathering of Mian Bisharat
there was, that is, a person reciting verse too. [TN: Bisharat is not otherwise identified.]

Ghazal: At the time of our meeting the argument between us grew

At the time of our meeting the argument between us grew:
some such words were spoken that the matter just grew.

The morning bird did not sing, no sound of a sigh came:
O Lord, how the night of separation grew!

Your reform is needed now too, Shaikh-ji:
your beard, O Qibla of all needs, has grown. [TN: *islah*, "reform", also means trimming the beard.]

The fruit-laden branch that the hand of my desire reached now and then:
alas, that too has grown out of reach.

Setting the turban-end on his shoulder like a langur's tail:
how the Shaikh's miracles have grown!

Since the day the veil of hiddenness fell on them,
the worth of the world of the jinn has grown.

You abused a poor wretch, my idol:
did your standing grow by the abuse?

Give Mushafi blessings and wealth, O Generous One,
so that everyone says his station has now grown.