Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: At last such power came into the mention of you

At last such power came into the mention of you
that I spoke your name, and you came down into my heart.

After many days a tear came into my eye:
tear, is all well? Where have you wandered from?

A thousand thanks that you were seen in this heart:
this image was quickly drawn upon a blank page.

Man appeared to us in the shape of a bubble:
the air that filled the drop rose to the surface.

Even a lament comes to my lips with a hundred charms:
where did the influence of your manner come from?

There is ease in non-being; heart, I am going too, come:
all the days of trouble in the world are filled.

Now weep over what was written, in the grave till Doomsday:
the messenger came with the letter when I had died.

It has lain like this since night, and has not yet turned over:
my wounded heart has come back dead from her lane.

A thousand thanks to God, this is a blessing:
neither good nor evil came into my heart.

Hypocrisy was in the heart; now its mark is on the brow: [TN: the callus on the forehead from prostration, worn for show.]
what a scar, and where it suddenly rose up!

My faith, after long wavering, now dwells in the heart:
freed from the wrath of idols, it came to the house of God.

The foot of our seeking carried out a great campaign:
our head came, cut off, before the killer.

Drinking wine, cupbearer, I reached the sky:
where did such power come into these few drops?

Whether she speaks ill of idols or of me, messenger,
I have gone and laid my faith down safely in the Kaaba.

Shaking my shoulder in the grave, Death says,
"Wake up now, traveller: you have come home."

A thousand thanks, the sun of Judgement rose:
my honour was saved, in that You were seen.

At Judgement the witness of my limbs was accepted: [TN: on the Day of Judgement the limbs bear witness to the deeds of the body.]
they were cleared, and the blame came on my head.

The press of sorrows tried a hundred thousand times to teach us:
not even to sigh did we learn all our life.

Who are these, Shad, who became masters in a few days?
We never learned to make a verse all our life.

People of taste, Shad, call that alone poetry
which is recited here and goes into hearts there.

Ghazal: Even after a whole life I did not learn the way to live

Even after a whole life I did not learn the way to live:
life, leave me alone; I give it up.

Good news, my soul: a companion like love has come:
the misery of poverty is gone, a proud king has come.

When some new enchanter came to us,
we became his, and your coquetry came to mind.

A lifetime passed in your drinking, and even so,
drinker, you never learned the way to drink.

Heart or soul or liver, all pricked up their ears:
has love come, or some mischief-maker?

The preacher is eavesdropping at the tavern door:
beware, drinkers, a mischief-maker has come.

That glance fell on my helpless heart
as the royal falcon swoops, wings poised, on the sparrow.

Why are you silent, heart? With whom is this whispering?
Has death come, or a confidant for you?

See the ceaseless tears; do not ask how I am:
hush, hush, a tell-tale has come into this gathering.

In this ruin, cupbearer, we are both alike:
I never learned to drink, nor you to pour.

I have no lament, nightingale, only a taste for music:
I am a traveller; I came on hearing your voice.

When my heart is troubled in the cage, let me open my wings a little:
I did not get even that much strength, longing for flight.

Let us see whom the heart's lament goes and strikes:
the mischief-maker we feared has come.

Why should the rival not be tongue-tied on hearing my verse?
What can magic do when the worker of miracles has come?

The drinkers hold out cupped hands; why stand on ceremony?
Pour, cupbearer: the God-made cup has come.

No, the candle's weeping did not stop in any way,
though a companion like the late moth had come.

In one pinch you have done all your work, darling:
no glance, no charm, no coquetry came to you.

Again and again it turns my thoughts that way:
no breath came into my body, but a companion came. [TN: a pun: *dam*, "breath", and *dam-saz*, "companion".]

How should I not take death for life eternal?
Have you come, or some worker of miracles? [TN: Jesus, who raised the dead with his breath.]

Without Anees, Shad, the garden of verse is desolate: [TN: Mir Babar Ali Anees (d. 1874), master of the elegy; Shad saw him as his model.]
alas, no singer like him has come.

Ghazal: If your name does not come to my lips as I die

If your name does not come to my lips as I die,
then I give up dying: what use will it be to me?

Know this too, cupbearer: the drinkers will not believe it
if the ascetic comes wearing the pilgrim's garb. [TN: *ihram*, the white garb of the pilgrim to Mecca.]

On the night of separation I am glad of my heart's pain for this:
all night, again and again, your name will come to my lips.

Something must have touched that wretched heart too, messenger:
whoever goes there will come back thwarted, like you.

In this hope the drinkers keep their eyes fixed:
one day the cupbearer will come with a cup on her delicate palm.

Here I have my own troubles; why argue with you, comforter?
What rest is this? When I die, then rest will come.

What an honour, preacher, to be mentioned in that gathering!
What does it matter if our name comes among the sinners?

Make a thousand denials, counsellor, or break with her:
yet round and round, her name will come to my lips.

Since the master of the tavern gave it himself, drink, ascetic:
what are you thinking? Why will the blame fall on you?

The chain of fate is in the hunter's power:
how, breeze, will the captive of the net come to the garden?

Does anyone give a drunkard a brimming cup, cupbearer?
What will you lose? The blame will come on me for nothing.

Will you see her in union, longing eyes, or shall I?
Will weeping serve you, or will it serve me?

Shall I always drink from this old earthen cup?
Some day surely a golden goblet will come before me.

Where shall I find the patience of Job, cupbearer?
The jar will come, the flask will come, then the cup will come.

Was the knife blunt, yours or your killer's, O slain one?
Writhe, too: why should the blame fall on your neck? [TN: the writhing of the slain bird was taken as proof that the killing was lawful.]

With these words I put off Death like a creditor:
"Today the messenger will come with word from my love."

Is it always in my fate just to count and recount?
Will no lament come to my lips that is fit to end it?

In my love's lane, Shad, all sit waiting:
God knows in whose name the order will come from there.

Ghazal: One cruelty, and a hundred thousand airs: oh, youth! alas, the times

One cruelty, and a hundred thousand airs: oh, youth! alas, the times!
Sidelong glances, tight gowns: oh, youth! alas, the times!

In separation my state is otherwise, my moist eyes a spring cloud:
the stubbornness that she should call me herself: oh, youth! alas, the times!

To start at one's own grace, to be alarmed by one's own air,
a stumble in the step, modesty on the face: oh, youth! alas, the times!

To hold the sword crosswise, so that the wound, if it comes, is shallow,
and the intent to torment again to the heart's content: oh, youth! alas, the times!

Black clouds, swings in the garden, green scarves, tossing locks,
and on me the ban that I must not come: oh, youth! alas, the times!

Rising in the last watch for prayers, rubbing the nose, prostration upon prostration,
and prayers for what is not lawful: oh, youth! alas, the times!

Shad, there is no more of that worship of the face, nor that drunkenness without wine:
from where shall we search you out and bring you back? Oh, youth! alas, the times!

Ghazal: Idol, after your cruelty, do the work of faithfulness too

Idol, after your cruelty, do the work of faithfulness too:
be of use to God's servants, for this is God's work.

Where was I bound, and where has desire brought me?
Did I not say, "Do not take a guide's work from thieves"?

The heart says, "Tell me the tale of the tresses":
today it has taken on itself a work of calamity. [TN: a pun: *bala*, "calamity", and "dark tresses" in lovers' idiom.]

If I do not ask the sigh for its effect, what shall I do?
Why did it take up the work of the heart that wants nothing?

Do your best with her; then it is up to her:
to hear is her work, to reach her is the prayer's work.

At every breath the scars in my breast keep opening:
now my own breath does the work of the morning breeze. [TN: the morning breeze makes the buds open.]

Moses was not alone among those who held up Your mirror:
Jesus too did the work of the miracle-working lip.

Each night weeping is a binding duty on my eyes,
as the obedient do the work of God.

This heart was already disgraced at the court of beauty:
the wretch has been given the work of begging.

Shad, he keeps silent at my harsh words:
now even the counsellor has begun to do the prophets' work.

Ghazal: I ran far from death, but the wretch caught me all the same

I ran far from death, but the wretch caught me all the same:
among all those hundreds of thousands of the dying, how quickly it knew me!

When I was slain I writhed and spattered blood, I admit:
did she blame herself? No: "Why did you not keep off my skirt?"

Do not try your common tricks on me; we are men, hear this, world:
what we said with our mouth we did; what we resolved, we resolved.

There were kinds of despair and longing, and sorts of boundless hope:
when we set out from the world, we took much baggage with us.

With the hand that killed me she made me recite the creed of that hand:
taking my life, well, was a kindness, but the killer took my faith.

The tavern is a place of pleasure and joy; what does it mean to sit and weep here?
Moist eyes, you have brought a storm upon your head for nothing.

When you have favoured this house, stay a while, arrow of the glance:
with what desire, guest, the heart kissed your feet!

To think that your seeker wants comfort! God forbid!
I sat down with broken feet only when I had searched desert and mountain.

In whatever guise you come, what of it? It will not be deceived again:
seeker of the world, the world has known you in every way.

The blade was on the vein of my neck, my breast pressed beneath her feet:
turning my face, we kissed your dagger as far as we could.

Shad, it is idle to complain of him, whether he lampoons you or turns from you:
the pupil stays your pupil till Doomsday once he has taken you as master.

Ghazal: Do not forget where your heart is set: wake, traveller, it is not night

Do not forget where your heart is set: wake, traveller, it is not night.
The face of dawn will soon appear: wake, traveller, it is not night.

Rubbing their eyes in the courtyard of the garden, the sleepy ones rose swaying:
see, the breeze has come with the news: wake, traveller, it is not night.

Above the deep blue colour the whiteness keeps growing:
the colour of the moon has turned to gold: wake, traveller, it is not night.

No strength or power, no company or companion, you must walk on your own feet:
the road of the journey is heavy on you: wake, traveller, it is not night.

I give my life for you, my dear one, my companion and fellow sufferer:
I love you, and I have brought the news: wake, traveller, it is not night.

The birds woke from their dreams, and all cried out for joy:
the call of the birds of dawn has come: wake, traveller, it is not night.

The hour of departure is upon you, Shad: take up your bag and bedding.
You have passed the whole night in sleep: wake, traveller, it is not night.

Ghazal: Much has been forgotten; Shad, the age of forgetting has come

Much has been forgotten; Shad, the age of forgetting has come:
my dear, grief is idle; the day of hearing rebukes has come.

She must have promised the messenger she would come:
he went from here restless, and came back from there content.

The heart torn into a hundred pieces is no match for you, nightingale:
the lover went into the garden and counted the petals of the flowers.

The cupbearer went out himself to meet him with great honour
when some aged drinker came into the tavern.

Come away, say nothing at all to the preacher, keep quiet, drinkers:
he is in a fury of rage, or a jinn has come upon the fool's head.

May God let us hear news of the sick-with-grief's recovery:
whoever went to him, Shad, came back content.

Ghazal: All my life my heart never came to know sin

All my life my heart never came to know sin:
may the Creator bless your sidelong glance!

The heart alone enjoys the pleasure of acquaintance;
the eye can see, but it has no power.

Let me look my fill, then martyr me for that crime:
do not take an innocent man's blood on your head like this.

If you must weep, eyes, weep now at the death agony:
today the black day too comes to its end.

Having brought us to the grave, they go to their own houses:
there, they had promised to stand by us!

Fate brought us from the Judgement into Paradise:
the longing of this plaintiff stayed in his heart.

Her slipper takes pride on her ground;
the sky winks at the corner of her cap.

The caravan did not turn back to see who I was:
may no one be left behind on the road as I am.

When my intent to reach the stage grew firm,
every single tree became a Khizr on my road. [TN: Khizr, the immortal guide of lost travellers.]

How long, all my life, shall I carry this body of dust?
Now let the soul find some corner where it can last.

Those drinkers were far better than I, cupbearer,
who kept seeking some excuse for the pardon of sin.

Let the chain of tears break somewhere, separation:
the feet of my plaints and sighs are tired out.

You are not the only one, Khizr; do not be proud:
whoever is left behind on the road looks to every traveller.

He kept us grieving in Paradise too, for ever,
having taken from us the confession of our sins.

When I told my grief, this was the answer she gave:
"The face bears witness to a false witness."

The uproar of Judgement Day finds no room in my heart:
I remember the tumult of the sigh in separation.

He sent me to Paradise and did not ask how my heart was:
what a fine judgement he gave this plaintiff!

Who knows where it went in search of effect?
To this day no trace has been found of my sigh.

In my breast is the clamour of lament and wailing:
there is always mourning for the heart, God rest it.

Sky, go on, throw Joseph into the well:
you mean to test Zulaikha's love. [TN: a pun: *chah*, "well" and "love".]

Why should Shad not have standing among the gathering?
I am a worthy successor to Rasikh, God rest him. [TN: Rasikh Azimabadi, an earlier poet of Patna (Azimabad); *rasikh* also means "firm, established".]

Ghazal: All our life we ate the salt of the earth

All our life we ate the salt of the earth:
faithfulness was in our nature; we became of this place.

Let not the soul, once it leaves, waver somewhere:
a thousand pities, we belong neither to the world nor to faith.

All my life I did not raise my eyes to look anywhere:
we stayed lost in the thought of one eye lined with collyrium.

When we were made dust, the earth was taken from us:
did we not stay here, breeze, belonging nowhere?

When we have a home here, why travel about the sky?
Shad, since the first day we are dwellers of this same earth.

Shad, why does the world not forget us?
We deserve neither satire nor praise.

Ghazal: I have been tangled in desires

I have been tangled in desires;
I have been soothed with toys.

I know every speck of dust of that lane:
for ages I have come and gone that way.

Why do my feet not rise towards the temple?
I have been led astray in some mosque.

Ask my restless heart, light of the gathering:
I did not come of myself; I was brought.

It is very early, uproar of Judgement:
I have been roused for nothing yet.

Desire came and tormented me for hours
whenever I was found for a moment in myself.

I did not believe in the miracles of wine:
I was made to accept them with great difficulty.

Why should I not go into the grave, hiding my face?
I have been made to rise from a full gathering.

Why should I not go into non-being, hiding my face?
I have been made to rise from a full gathering. [TN: the source repeats this couplet with one word changed.]

How far apart are I and the world, Shad!
From where, and to what place, I have been brought!

Ghazal: I belonged to death; I have become death's

I belonged to death; I have become death's:
I woke for a moment in between, then slept again.

The pleasure is that one is not one's own:
whoever became yours became yours.

The desolation bites me:
who came to this grave and wept?

What can I tell of the depth of the sea of being?
Shad, I drowned in it and was lost.

Ghazal: If a stranger combs out your tresses

If a stranger combs out your tresses,
those with eyes will not be able to bear the sight.

It will bear hardships of every kind:
heart, why, will you too ever be of use?

A day like this will come too, counsellor,
when I shall eat grief and grief will eat me.

Sky, a day like this will come too,
when you will repent of what you have done.

In union, the fear of separation is needless:
those days will come; they will teach you.

The friends have come to lift my body:
let us see when her coquetry brings her.

It mourns for the wounded heart:
my lament too will go on writhing.

Leave us wild ones alone, dust:
how far will you keep following behind?

The life that has come to the lips waits:
let us see when the messenger comes back.

Count your laments a blessing in separation:
later, weakness, you yourself will repent.

If we are half-slain, we are; what then can we do?
If we say anything, she will be ashamed.

Frenzy of madness, I give my life for you:
who else will stroke the soles of my feet like this?

The comforter made me writhe still more:
he is mad himself; how will he soothe me?

Where is a traveller like you, Khizr of desire?
Who will find the dust of your feet?

Why go into the garden? Autumn is coming:
I shall not be able to bear the fallen face of the rose.

Tell me, my life, what shall I do
when the thought of you makes me writhe all night?

Why should I not long for the counsellor?
Your name will come to his lips.

If the soul grows weary at the heart's hands,
who then will soothe that wild one?

The ends on both sides are lost:
who will untangle the knots of the heart?

Where am I, and where the preacher? Heaven forbid!
How will he explain what he never understood himself?

Tired at last, the dust will settle;
the caravan will be left staring.

If you grow weary at the heart's hands, Shad,
who then will counsel that wild one? [TN: the source gives this poem four closing couplets with the pen name.]

Do not think little of desire, Shad:
one way or another it will grow and bring calamity.

It is autumn: do not go walking among the flowers, Shad:
you will not be able to bear the weeping of the dew.

Say nothing to Shad of the state of autumn:
he will die the moment he hears that news.

Ghazal: When anyone asked how I was, I wept

When anyone asked how I was, I wept:
moist eyes, you have lost me.

Scar or burning, pain or grief,
whatever anyone gave, I took it gladly.

The rush of shedding tears washed the dust away
whenever it saw the least of it on the heart.

Unconsciousness, I do not even care for the heart:
what did I throw away, where, and to whom did I give it?

Something or other in this assembly, as befits each,
you have given to all, Divider of the first day. [TN: God, who apportioned each soul's lot before creation.]

The field of the world: who knows what fruit it will bear?
We came and sowed the seed of grief.

This too is no small intoxication, drinkers:
whether the cupbearer gives or not, take it as given.

Why speak of the beloved before Shad?
Her name came up, and he wept.

By writing your name in the ranks of the men of the pen,
Shad, you have lost yourself for nothing.

Ghazal: The one I reared so long in the lap of longing

The one I reared so long in the lap of longing
became the founder of my grief and pain and torment.

What I have borne at his hands, and what all I have still to bear!
O God, may such kindness have a black face in both worlds.

They claim to be just, and no effect appears:
we have tasted the pleasure of love from such friends too.

To wipe out the shame of their own cruelty,
they seek out every kind of pretext for complaint.

Envy fills their hearts; for a lifetime there has been rancour in them:
they show it whenever there is a chance to show enmity.

In greed they think nothing of the honour of father and brother:
look at their deeds, and then they claim nobility.

My two-day life passes in helplessness:
from neither my own nor strangers did I get the fruit of my toil.

Whomever I saw, whomever I found, was the slave of his own interest:
there is no taste left in the world now of pure love.

Ours is a house of sorrows: there is only us, or books; [TN: *kulba-e ahzan*, "house of sorrows", the hut where Jacob mourned Joseph.]
no companion of our fate is left now.

May God keep these dear ones of mine flourishing, Shad:
they have made me taste "Lending is the scissors of love." [TN: Arabic proverb in the source: *al-qarz miqraz al-muhabba*.]

Ghazal: When one day, worn out, we resolve on something in our heart

When one day, worn out, we resolve on something in our heart,
see the cruelty: she recognises it at once.

We sift the desert of madness as far as our courage goes:
we are travellers; we take provisions for the journey.

God willing, this time the hard thing will be made easy at the place of slaughter:
your sick ones needlessly accept death's favour.

Here they go to a tomb, there they do not even go to a house;
to one they give their life, another's life they take.

So that all the dregs may stay in our wet skirt,
we strain the wine of desire before we drink it.

Our poetry came to life, Shad, after our death:
now lovers of verse give the coin of their life to buy our diwan.

Ghazal: Where the school of existence is, the lesson is to keep silent

Where the school of existence is, the lesson is to keep silent:
here it is a great sin to say "a" to "b". [TN: *alif se be kahna*, to say anything at all.]

On the night of separation, frightened of a shadow, I say,
"Sir, this night is frightening; stay awake."

The flowers opened in the garden, spring came to the orchard:
the bride of the world, it seems, has put on her jewels.

Our sighs and cries make the body of desire strong:
this hand is our left, and that our right.

Do not take it for the cry of the lovesick nightingale:
it is some watchman sounding his round in the courtyard of the garden. [TN: *shahna*, the night watchman; the source's spelling makes it rhyme with *gahna*, "jewels".]

In the grief of separation, sky, there is no end to it:
whatever she makes me bear, I must bear in every way.

Let it out, for in such a time the river of tears is flowing:
it is bad, eye, to keep a thing in the heart.

In my love's lane or in some ruin,
we must lie dead somewhere till Judgement Day.

There is power in Shad's verses, and gravity too:
he is an old master; how can one praise his ghazal enough?

Ghazal: We too shall go on living until our breath comes to our lips

We too shall go on living until our breath comes to our lips:
we too must see how long the messenger does not come.

The lament that should have reached the exalted Throne with my plea,
for many nights now does not even come to my lips.

My heart, perhaps, went and died in the valley of exile:
there is a term even for not coming; how long will it not come?

There, she is uneasy even at hearing others' stories;
here, not one word of my purpose comes to my tongue.

So weak and feeble is the lament from the narrowness of my breast
that what set out at dawn does not reach my lips by night.

Wherever I begin, he starts up other tales:
by no means will the tyrant come to the word that matters.

Until she sends for Shad into her lane,
you have the monopoly, desire; yes, till then he does not come.