Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: Is it only today you are on fire? When were you not hot for strife

Is it only today you are on fire? When were you not hot for strife?
When were you not, like a candle, bound to a fiery nature?

Is it only today you lay claim against the idols of the world?
When were you not the shame of the youths of Paradise, the envy of the houris?

Is it only today you take offence at every word without cause?
O tyrant, when were you not bent on quarrel and spite?

Is it only today you have no place in my breast and heart?
Cruel one, like the arrow of a glance, when were you not lodged in the heart?

Is it only today you have mingled modesty and mischief?
When were you not bold with the rival and shy with me?

Is it only today the sky hears complaints of the people's cries?
O tyrant, when were you not the calamity of the face of the earth?

Is it only today you plot with my enemies to kill me?
O seeker of cruelty, when were you not after my sad life?

Is it only today you make up stories about coming here?
When were you not a trickster, when not an inventor of excuses?

Is it only today you rose from here and went to the rival's house?
Sun-like one, when were you not here by night and there by day?

Is it only today that a forehead mark has made you shine fourfold? [TN: the *tika*, an ornament worn on the forehead; *chaar chaand lagna*, "four moons attached", is to shine with added glory.]
Without any fuss, without any fuss, when were you not moon-browed?

It is not only today, from the burning of separation, that like a moth
Shefta is restless for a fiery face: when was he not?

Ghazal: There are rumours that the sighs of my wretched heart have had an effect

There are rumours that the sighs of my wretched heart have had an effect;
that is, there are rumours of my love's kindness to me.

Have some shame, cry of my heart, even in the rival's house
there are rumours of a surge of mourning laments. [TN: obscure: the second line may be corrupt in the source.]

When did advice and counsel ever affect my heart?
These are rumours from the idle-talking counsellor.

On what day did she become a buyer of the goods of the heart?
These are just rumours of the lane and the bazaar.

Qais and Farhad, the face to stand against me?
These are rumours of the people of desert and mountain.

Is it any matter that I should talk with the rival?
Do not believe it; these are the rivals' rumours.

On what hope should Shefta live, despairing of kindness?
There are rumours of my love's cruelty even to the rival.

Ghazal: Where is that moon-browed one inclined this way

Where is that moon-browed one inclined this way?
Why does the sky bear me quarrel and spite?

She did not watch the show of the one she struck down;
coming close, how far-sighted she is!

If this is good, then good: torment the rival too,
and ask him why he is sad.

What desire will show us its face,
when the one we love sits behind a veil?

She complains to me (God, the mischief!)
that she is grieved by my grief.

What a parting separation has made!
What can we say? We are in one place, the heart in another.

Do not ask about Shefta's state, sir;
his state is that he is not himself.

Ghazal: No complaint can be made of the motion of that brow

No complaint can be made of the motion of that brow:
the heart is flesh, and cannot be parted from the nail. [TN: the curved brow is likened to a fingernail; "flesh and nail" are inseparable.]

You at least have some effect, silence, may I be your sacrifice!
Nothing of mine can be done by laments.

If the rival too is given over to cruelty, it is certain
that nothing can come from you but tyranny and cruelty.

Let the nail of your sword untie the knot of my heart;
not even death is allowed to do this work.

That you should go ahead of me on the road to that lane,
O guide, that can never be!

When I said, "Do not be the companion of rivals,"
she frowned and said, "That cannot be."

This is the secret of love, not the tale of the nightingale:
the morning breeze cannot be my confidant.

When did my sleeping fortune let her come in a dream?
And she made a promise that cannot be kept.

If she is angry with me, that too becomes her;
but Shefta cannot be angry with her.

Ghazal: The people of pain have a wondrous quickness of thought

The people of pain have a wondrous quickness of thought:
like the tongue of speech is the silent tongue of the pen.

She has made a pact of faithfulness; she will keep it; doubt is idle.
She has promised; she will come; suspicion is out of place.

Is the goal near from there at all?
"O you who dwell upon the mountains!" [TN: Arabic in the source: *ya ayyuha alladhina sakantum ala al-jibal*.]

Coquetry and pride are fitting, tyranny and cruelty right:
to whose lot did such beauty and such grace fall?

Cupbearer, pour such wine that heedlessness becomes awareness;
minstrel, sing such a song that talk becomes ecstasy. [TN: *qal* and *hal*, "word" and "state", the Sufi contrast of talk and experience.]

Why should we follow the lovers of old?
O carping critic, "We are men, and they are men." [TN: Arabic: *nahnu rijal wa hum rijal*, a saying attributed to Abu Hanifa about the earlier authorities.]

The way of the people of the path is unlike all others:
the more their occupation, the more their freedom of mind.

At the time of the pact she used such words
as carry a number of meanings.

"What is this plundering of yours, while you sit in your houses?
What is this killing of yours, while you are in your curtained chambers?" [TN: Arabic: *madha la-tanhabna wa antunna fi al-buyut / madha taqtulna wa antunna fi al-hijal*, addressed to women.]

Ghazal: In that gathering it looked less than every other

In that gathering it looked less than every other,
that beauty which had outdone the office of the sun.

It is idle to wonder why she came unannounced;
she was passing that way, and came to our house too.

It is not beyond them to call it a conjuring trick;
what use, if pieces of my liver came from my eyes?

Though she said nothing, her heart was moved
when my complaint came to my tongue more distraught.

From the frailty of longing I had already risen,
when suddenly she came, restless, to my grave.

The poor man is worthless, like a dry tree;
here leaves and fruit come in dirhams and dinars.

My liver is cut at the state of my hundred-torn heart:
every piece looked like a shard of diamond.

To see how I fare in separation, that suspicious one
came unannounced to my house at night for this.

Why the delay, rose-coloured cupbearer? It is dawn.
What excuse now, dry ascetic? A rain cloud has come.

There are various reports about Shefta's state;
we shall ask, when someone trustworthy comes from there.

Ghazal: It is idle to hope again for that faithfulness from me

It is idle to hope again for that faithfulness from me;
this flirtation of yours, to beguile the heart, is idle.

From that inventor of cruelty, who in her pride
takes enmity for a favour, hope of friendship is idle.

The beloved's glances are before my eyes even after death;
the rival's restlessness, at the fancy that I am at rest, is idle.

When did the cypress bear fruit? What effect can a sigh have?
The rain of tears from my wet eye, like a cloud, is idle.

Finding you heedless, we gave our heart to another;
O tyrant, your show of heedlessness now is idle.

What if the sky and death did not befriend me in separation?
Hope from enemies, Shefta, is idle.

Ghazal: She has a special love for my enemy

She has a special love for my enemy:
this is the fruit of our sincerity.

The people of pain have brought us to ecstasy:
with the wind, the dust is dancing.

Send the pieces of the heart flying; it is no sin.
Kill the lower self; there is no retribution for it.

Beauty within, and a mean outside:
it is pure wine in a cup of lead.

What joy is there in acquaintance with you?
"You have not drunk the wine of sincerity." [TN: Arabic: *ma sharibtum mudamat al-ikhlas*.]

Separation is poison, and union the antidote;
poison and antidote have different properties.

It is his fortune who is not told
that in this age the special wine is common.

In the season of the rose, the nightingales
have no wish to be freed from your snare.

Shefta did not give us our due;
it is true: "The storyteller does not love the storyteller." [TN: Arabic proverb: *al-qass la yuhibb al-qass*; rivals in the same craft do not love each other.]

Ghazal: We did not rise and leave the wine-seller's threshold

We did not rise and leave the wine-seller's threshold:
the wine-seller's shop is a magic that steals the senses.

When the veil lifted from the face of the truths of things,
the truth of the wine-seller's hidden secret was revealed.

Out of a cold nature and sloth, never once,
even in youth, did we see the wine-seller's shop.

I am sure that pure wine will come to hand for nothing;
I have a mind to become the wine-seller's guest.

By the cup the heart is meant, and by the wine, love:
I am not one who fails to understand the wine-seller's tongue.

It would be no wonder if one day she too came by,
for the wine-seller's threshold is a thoroughfare for all.

Come yourself and see the secrets of wine and song;
do not ask me, for I am the wine-seller's confidant.

See what colour of wine he pours:
there is no other test of the wine-seller.

Your fragrance has ruined the rose garden;
your glance has opened the wine-seller's shop.

It is idle, Shefta, to go about asking everyone:
from the drinkers you will find the wine-seller's mark.

Ghazal: Rise, it is morning: see the bird of the garden singing

Rise, it is morning: see the bird of the garden singing;
see the light of dawn, the beauty of the rose, the sweetness of the air.

Calamity will fall unjustly on two or four angels;
O envy of Venus, do not sing; take care! [TN: the angels Harut and Marut were said to have fallen for the singer Zuhra, later the planet Venus.]

They beg and plead to win me over, and I will not be won:
see the manners of a king, and the ways of a beggar.

If you will not believe in this way that the rival is a lustful pretender,
just once let yourself fall into the rivals' power, and see.

Do not stretch the tale of your pure skirt so far:
look at your skirt a little, look at the ties of your robe.

Because I did not meet her for one moment, she will not meet me;
O Shefta, see the hopelessness of hope's wide air.

Ghazal: She made us a dwelling in her own neighbourhood

She made us a dwelling in her own neighbourhood;
the friend made the enemy of another, and made me an enemy.

The maid who adorned her must have worked a spell,
for she turned the rose petal into the bud of the lily.

Alas, that hand never reached the hem of her skirt,
the hand that tore my collar down to make it a skirt.

Such a blaze of beauty no one can have seen even in a dream:
her glory turned her curtain into a screen of reeds.

You people are a wonder, to have such power over the heart:
at night you made it wax, at dawn you made it iron.

The moth is silent, for it has no leave to speak;
the nightingale sings, for it was made a singer.

Alas, she is turning the city into a desert,
whose glory turned the desert into a garden.

Grant that the maid is to blame for all the adornment;
did she make the glance so full of art as well?

You should not have declared your love to her, Shefta;
what have you done? You have made a friend an enemy.

Ghazal: O Shefta, the night of grief has the good news of dawn today

O Shefta, the night of grief has the good news of dawn today:
the glow of the moon matches the brilliance of the sun today.

With a heart-winning tune the minstrel gives new life:
the effect of the liver-rending sigh is plain today.

Why should the space of the gathering not be wider than the heart?
The narrowness of the house is the crowd outside the door today.

No candle in a lantern, no fairy in a bottle
shines as the wine shines in the cup today.

Even the moths have their heads in the sky,
for there is the glow of the moon in the lamplight today.

On every side the tulip-faced young ones are shining;
what they call a rose garden is our house today.

Such provisions as the eye of fancy could not picture:
come, rival, and see what is before our eyes today.

Gone are the days when head and stone were bound together;
there are prostrations of thanks, and our own head, today.

All this provision for pleasure, Shefta, that is laid out:
why hide it from you? There is news that she is coming today.

Ghazal: Our work was done at the very start of love

Our work was done at the very start of love,
so we ask the Angel of Death about our end.

Life is spent in picturing her face and curl:
O turning of the days, our day and night are different.

There, such a ban that not even the sound of a cry may reach;
here, such turmoil that our way should pass by her rooftop.

How can one as delicate as she bear the warmth of company?
Enough, my raw desire; do not burn my liver to a crisp.

Because of the fever of my heart I long for death:
who is there who would not wish for his own rest?

Since our blood dried up from our wine-drinking,
is our cup brimming with the rivals' blood?

If I call it kindness, that is right; if cruelty, that is true too:
you have sent me someone who bears your own name.

That she feels jealous at the mention of lovers
shows that the self-willed idol is in love with herself.

Who could bear a kiss, Shefta, even if she gave one?
Here the sweetness of her abuse has already done its work.

Ghazal: Even the nightingale has no mind for the song of the rose

Even the nightingale has no mind for the song of the rose,
so spoiled is the air of the rose in your age.

When she gave the rival roses to smell as he fainted,
the scent of the rose carried my soul off to Paradise.

It is a hint that even after death we stayed faithless:
that is why she laid roses on my tomb.

The nightingales die at the very name of the rose, so now,
since I was branded with roses, they follow me about. [TN: *gul khana*, "to eat roses", is to be branded with burns as a mark of love.]

So that I may prick the rival's eye even after death,
lay thorns on my tomb instead of roses.

How can I tell in how many ways the rivals were lost,
when they find roses on my breast even on the Day of Judgement? [TN: the "roses" are the brands of love.]

Spring is burning from your world-consuming beauty:
flames instead of roses will spring from the dust of the garden.

At last her two-facedness was clear to that lovely rose,
when the rival hid his roses on seeing people.

Before the lover, on the road of love, it gives its life:
how should the nightingale not give its life for the rose?

The nightingale is silent, for it has no strength left;
the drums of its ears are torn like the robe of the rose.

Perhaps he will bring her to show her that the rival
spread roses on my bed instead of thorns.

The rose that has that grace, where is it in the garden?
Nightingales, the grace of the rose is yours to enjoy.

She grieves for me alone: for at the nightingale's sigh
who tears his collar, apart from the rose?

The nightingales reached Paradise, the moths were burned:
who now will bring a candle to my grave, and who a rose?

Longing for one rose was the cause of my death:
in the season of flowers my companions sent for roses.

We have written such a fresh ghazal, Shefta,
that every couplet in it puts bouquets of roses to shame.

Ghazal: If we keep so far from the air of that quarter

If we keep so far from the air of that quarter,
it is because we know the ways of a turbulent heart.

She is a byword for betraying the secrets of love:
how should we not keep a grudge in our heart against the breeze?

We are going to the tavern, friends; but where, there?
Let us first take leave of pride, hypocrisy and show.

O surge of jealousy at the rival's nearness, do not rise now:
see with what pleading we are sitting in the gathering.

Our robe is in tatters, heart and breast torn to shreds:
we went mad over the rose at the collar of her robe.

How were we to know she would come at dawn, tall as the Resurrection?
Else we would not have died, at the evening of separation, for nothing.

In everything our eye is on the source:
we take the musk of the wound from the double tress.

Since my love became a stranger, he is a rival:
we have given up hope of every friend.

The nightingale is saying on the top of the branch,
"We are drunk on the air of the garden."

The people of the gathering think us cold;
we have been put to shame by your modesty and shyness.

Yes, Shefta, even if there is advice in it,
we hear the bitter word with the ear of consent.

Ghazal: Your spell has no place in my heart, preacher

Your spell has no place in my heart, preacher;
do not be an idol-worshipper, a slave of show, preacher.

Some idol must have set you on fire;
or else why such praise of the houris, preacher?

I burn with your world-consuming beauty,
for the shaikh and the pious and the preacher are my rivals.

Let us compare and see which of the two is finer:
we shall bring her, and you call your houri, preacher.

More effective than your spell that pours out power
is the cry without effect and the sigh that does not arrive, preacher.

What did he lack, friends, in the state of a drinker?
Someone should ask why Shefta became a preacher.

Ghazal: We will not insist on following the rival

We will not insist on following the rival:
we are not special, and kindness will not be common.

It is impossible for the fowler's heart to melt
at a lament that does not set the snare on fire.

Who is she, where is she, the one I am bound to?
Blaming will not make the blame stick.

Such injustice, and on top of it such faithfulness! Someone like me
has been forced to it; it cannot be a self-willed heart.

She will sing in the rival's house, but when?
When no lament can be raised by us any more.

We seek fame; what have we to do with shame?
If we are disgraced, shall we not have a name?

She killed the messenger, she slaughtered the pigeon:
now let anyone carry my message; it will not be done.

Once the veil was lifted, how long is the rival a friend?
I shall get no rest from the rival's torment.

Here we live on the hope of the night of union, and there
every morning the hope is that it will not come by evening.

The messenger waits idly for the right moment; what moment?
When will she not be busy with wine and cup?

The enemy, after the abuse, still seeks a kiss;
he will not be lost in the sweetness of abuse.

Farewell, lament, for here it has been settled:
a lament that is not the calamity of the heavens will not do. [TN: the first line appears to lack a word in the source.]

The lightning is the mirror of the garden's brief leisure; on this,
let no rose-coloured one look in the mirror; it will not be.

O people of vision, the sun is hidden in a speck of dust:
explaining will yield nothing but obscurity.

In this coquetry and neglect the messenger is ruined:
the poor man will never be worthy of a reward.

Why do you hesitate to go to that gathering?
Shefta, will you not be shown some honour?

Ghazal: There was little room in my unhappy heart

There was little room in my unhappy heart:
we forgot ourselves in remembering her.

O God, how does one bear the pain of the cage?
We died in the fowler's very hand.

Let those who know history tell
the difference between the wind of a sigh and the wind of Aad. [TN: the people of Aad, destroyed by a howling wind, Quran 69:6.]

Here the very hope of being killed shed my blood;
the longing stayed in the executioner's heart.

Being free of ties is also a prison, after all:
I found a prison in the free heart.

It was through the wealth of Shirin's sweet glance alone
that there was any power in Farhad's axe.

Why did you ask after him? Alas, your sick one
died in the clamour of congratulations.

Without ceremony, do whatever you please;
what is there in lament and cry?

Whether you pay heed or not, Shefta
stays day and night in remembrance of you.

Ghazal: Because the rival was grieving at parting all night long

Because the rival was grieving at parting all night long,
she could not sleep, here with me, all night long.

I would not complain if the requital went beyond all bounds:
there, peace lasts a moment, and fighting all night long.

The fear stayed that she might find me sleeping:
on the night of the promise I could not sleep all night long.

The truth is that most of the lovers gave themselves away
when the nightingale kept up its lament all night long.

If even a moment of life was lost in talk of the rival,
we could not find the joy of union all night long.

Granting a little attention to my state,
she went on boasting of herself all night long.

That sigh whose warp and weft is the air of her tress
plays at ambergris and the morning breeze all night long.

That glory of dawn which shone in the garden last night:
the bird of morning made a great stir all night long.

At odds with the tale, at war with sleep:
there is thought of union and talk of parting all night long.

She at the scent of whose tress I swoon, Shefta,
gave me the scent of her tress to smell all night long.

Ghazal: I meant to steal a kiss, seeing her lost in drink

I meant to steal a kiss, seeing her lost in drink;
I fainted, seeing her sober.

The red tears in my eyes are not from fear of being killed:
my blood is boiling over, seeing your sword.

She is going, and I have no strength to stop her; but
she may stay of her own accord, seeing me helpless.

I remember no one's veil, nor any unveiling:
I fainted, seeing the coverings of the Kaaba.

They call me, the leader of lovers, a lustful pretender,
seeing that she is inclined to torment the lover.

Tales of the curl and the heart come to my mind:
I weep, seeing the snare and the captive bird.

See what I have turned into: a figure on a wall,
seeing someone's face over the wall.

Surely there must be pity, tyrant, for such simplicity:
we fell in love seeing that you were full of guile.

They take the heart with little show of interest; they are clever:
the price goes up, seeing the buyer's eagerness.

At the time of his death Shefta said to everyone,
"If you give your heart to anyone, look first for faithfulness."

Ghazal: When I remembered the cruelty of the rivals

When I remembered the cruelty of the rivals,
I remembered something of your kindness too.

When did we ever need to keep a diet?
We had not eaten grief, when we remembered poison.

I did not write a letter, for the writing on my forehead [TN: fate, believed to be written on the forehead.]
came to mind at the time of writing.

From the flame of the wound, O hunter,
I remembered the scar of the deer of the sanctuary. [TN: game in the sanctuary of Mecca may not be hunted.]

How should the heart stay still? From your mischief
I remembered the restlessness of the cut-off foot. [TN: obscure: the reading of پئے ہم is uncertain.]

What luck! Her pact with the rival
came to her mind at the moment of swearing.

Her love for the rival was laid bare:
from the cup of wine I remembered Jamshid. [TN: the legendary king whose cup showed the whole world.]

Such is my heart that the self-admirers,
seeing it, scarcely remembered the mirror.

Why then these words of kindness?
Has some other cruelty come to mind?

Why are you so beside yourself, Shefta?
Have you remembered that mischievous one's shying away?

Ghazal: Ever since we were granted the robe of life

Ever since we were granted the robe of life,
the colour and manner of the universe have changed.

Bring down the flask, and put complaint on the shelf:
what trust can there be in an unstable life?

When you quarrel with the rival, you make peace with me;
no one here longs for that kind of attention.

If Khizr gave your thirsting one water at his last breath,
the fountain of the water of life would run dry.

Here do not look with disrespect at thorn and straw:
yes, the visible world is the mirror of the Essence.

They call me "my life", and think me faithless:
what trust they place in the words of an enemy!

Preacher, the madmen will not be called to account at the Resurrection;
you just worry about your own salvation.

From the surge of bloody tears at the time of writing,
it is no longer a letter; this is the page of the Night of Release. [TN: *Shab-e-Barat*, the night on which fates are written; *barat* also means a letter of release.]

Come, death, so that my honour too may be saved:
she has kept mourning for the rival's death.

How can Shefta prevail before one with whom
a single night's favour is held over him for a lifetime?

Ghazal: What complaint can one make of tyranny and cruelty to her

What complaint can one make of tyranny and cruelty to her
who asks, "What is kindness? What is faithfulness?"

If that careless one should write an answer to my letter,
God knows what the enemy wrote.

Why did you let me fall in love with that ill-tempered one?
Had we no friend at all?

In the scent of the rose is the scent of her robe;
it is false to say that the breeze did a favour.

I should not have written of the grief of failure in love:
what answer can there be to a letter with no purpose?

We ourselves meant to tell our state;
since she asks herself, what need to ask?

It is a fine sight if the rival's house burns,
she says; what is a flame-raising sigh?

The passing away of lovers is the very essence of everlasting life:
what blood-money for the living, what price of blood?

If he is a lustful pretender, then kill him and be done:
why test his longing with a promise to the rival?

Ghazal: If I go to my beloved's lane, then for the watchman

If I go to my beloved's lane, then for the watchman
there is no better gift than sleep.

The whole cause of falling behind is a lack of longing:
the fever became wings of flight for the bird of the soul.

Those base natures are partners of the nightingale and the dove
who stay restless to stroll in the garden.

There is hope that she will keep faith after putting me to the test,
since she is so insistent on a test.

No tie with those of dust, no bond with those of heaven:
we are neither for the earth nor for the sky.

The beloved's message became the messengers' honour:
the caravan is honoured by the breeze from Egypt. [TN: the caravan brought Joseph's shirt from Egypt, whose scent restored Jacob's sight.]

The age a cage, the soul a bird, the nest the angelic realm:
in the cage the bird is restless for its nest.

The tales of love are true, more or less, but somewhat
we do embellish them, to adorn the story.

There is such intoxication in our verse, Shefta,
that the wine of the Magi has no reality left.

Ghazal: If my soul burns with the scar of jealousy's grief, so much the better

If my soul burns with the scar of jealousy's grief, so much the better;
if the rival's longing too is fulfilled, so much the better.

The moth has become faithful just to burn me:
if some candle in the gathering would change, so much the better.

With what ease I might have a sight of her every moment!
If my heart could find amusement in the enemy's lane, so much the better.

It is best if you come out of the rival's power:
if this longing of my heart is fulfilled, so much the better.

The love-mad say, "Alas, Shefta has become as we are;
he was our friend too; if he recovers, so much the better."

Ghazal: I long for the scent of the garden of purity's fragrance

I long for the scent of the garden of purity's fragrance:
O Lord, send a gust of the breeze this way too.

What has your beggar to do with Jamshid's kingdom? For his delight
is in a broken bowl, a cup split in two.

The wonder of your manifestation is a lightning that burns the senses:
how can one tell the fragrance from the colour?

From the breeze of your kindness the rose blossoms;
the breeze's blowing hangs on your command.

Will the wisdom of the Necessary come within the reason of the contingent? [TN: in philosophy, God is the Necessary Being; creatures are contingent.]
How disordered is the mind of the philosopher!

Before hardship, humility is the road to safety:
how grateful I am to sound reason!

My passing away is the torch of the gathering of everlasting life:
I am a moth of the light of the Eternal Candle.

If such restlessness comes from longing for you,
I shall kiss the foot of the mighty Throne.

If there is no obedience, let it be; why despair?
When was the kindness of the Kind bound to a cause?

When the sea of your kindness surges,
the tongue of flame of Hell becomes a fountain of Paradise.

O Shefta, what have I to fear from the torment of Hell?
I belong to the community of the divider of Fire and Paradise. [TN: *qasim al-nar wa al-janna*, a title given to Ali.]

Ghazal: Though the candle's light cannot reach the sun

Though the candle's light cannot reach the sun,
the moth likes nothing but the candle.

In these dark times, someone as heart-melting as I am,
if the candle lit a torch and searched, it would not find.

On the day of separation the beauty of the rose is a resurrection;
in the nights of parting the sight of the rose is a torment. [TN: this couplet has the refrain "rose" instead of "candle"; printed as found.]

How ashamed the moths were when they saw at dawn
that at night the sun had been in her gathering in place of the candle!

That envy of candle and rose has a lustre all her own:
I have seen the glories of the rose and the flames of the candle.

The scar of tears gives the moth more heat:
in the nights of parting, how can anyone light a candle?

What need of a lamp in the house of the sun?
The order is that no one bring a candle to the gathering at night.

How could anything rival that priceless ruby?
The price of the rose and the worth of the candle are clear to all.

She by whose glory the sun becomes a candle at dawn:
how can the light and gleam of a candle stand before her?

On this dark night, how will she go to the rival's house?
My rival is the one who shows her a candle.

If she comes to my grave, then for the sake of beauty
let no one bring flowers, and no one send for a candle.

Putting wings on the rose, they will come of themselves, unbidden;
the candle will come here on its own feet, uninvited.

I fear she may turn him out of the gathering of pleasure:
how dare Shefta shed tears like a candle?

Ghazal: Last night, as she kept taking the cup from the rival's hand

Last night, as she kept taking the cup from the rival's hand,
with what longing we kept drinking our own blood!

Thanking her for cruelty made me still more hopeless:
she kept complaining of it to the rival.

When did we have leisure to tear our heart?
The counsellors kept on sewing up our torn collar.

They compare my love's life-giving lip
with the name of the Messiah, which we kept saying as we died.

With talk of the rival's union, of the moonlit night and wine,
we were so taken that she kept taunting us.

In separation, moment by moment, a new death was my lot;
every moment I kept living on the thought of your lip.

The style of speech is granted to be his, Shefta,
whether or not I made any claims with my tongue.

Ghazal: I complain to the enemy of my restless heart

I complain to the enemy of my restless heart;
why should I not complain of my love's mischief?

The madman of love is a teacher of manners to reason:
in his madness there is no complaint of the ambergris tress.

Do not delay in killing the martyrs of faithfulness:
everyone complains of the sharpness of the dagger.

What effect can there be? I am sick for those lips and teeth:
there is no grievance against the ruby, nor complaint of the pearl.

Why do you complain of the lover's heart to the lustful pretenders?
Does anyone complain of his own house to strangers?

Now I face the glances of those whose nature is cruelty;
once I used to complain of the probing of the lancet.

Here there is no rest even in rolling on thorns;
there, she complains to the rival of the bed of flowers.

We are teaching one who learns the wrong lessons; that is,
thanks for faithfulness, complaint of the tyrant's cruelty.

If she comes unveiled, O Shefta, how
could I complain of the tumult of the Resurrection?

Ghazal: She who took my heart was faithless

She who took my heart was faithless:
is this the custom of heart-stealing?

Do not mention peace with the rival;
it is no good talking of fighting.

You fear being caught;
here there is no hope of release.

How can I die of joy in union?
I have no strength for separation.

We claim not to give our heart:
who is it that boasts of stealing hearts?

One day I must come to your house,
if luck and fortune help me reach it.

If I gave my heart, what is that to the counsellors?
I did whatever came into my mind.

Shefta, who all his life
practised religion and piety,

in the end became a wine-worshipper:
such is the glory of His greatness!

Ghazal: Here there is no grievance against the heart, no complaint of the sky

Here there is no grievance against the heart, no complaint of the sky:
if she is not kind, no one is kind.

To this day we hide the secret of love from our friends,
although the story is no secret from our enemies.

It does not become one to bargain with the beloved;
otherwise her coquetry would not be dear at the price of a life.

We went there mingling with the band of rivals:
when longing is the guide, there is no watchman.

I am distraught like the wind, restless like lightning:
why is the sky not the helper of your mischief?

We would sacrifice the universe for you,
but what can we do? We own nothing but half a life.

She gave the tumult of the Resurrection the means of ecstasy,
she who does not trail her skirt over our dust.

Why do the beloved's companions plead for the rival?
Have we no exchange of gifts with them?

In one happy state we forgot the universe:
now we are where there is no minstrel and no cupbearer.

Whom shall we envy, for whom shall we weep?
On what day is that glory not the ruin of a hundred homes?

Why this crowd and clamour at the Rising of the dead?
Our sleep, Shefta, is not so heavy as that.

Ghazal: How long will you stay far from us and near the stranger

How long will you stay far from us and near the stranger?
We are close to death; will you not come near even now?

That candle-browed one was shining so last night
that we too died and stayed in the gathering beside the moth.

Bravo, flood of wildness! Hurrah, surge of madness!
She says, "Why should I go near the madman?"

We will have the rival tell you, have friends explain to you,
and then we shall see how you do not come near.

Shefta told the tale of Majnun last night;
as soon as she heard it, she came to have regard for my story. [TN: a play on *pas*, "near" and "regard", the refrain of the ghazal.]

Ghazal: She gave me a kiss when I grew bold

She gave me a kiss when I grew bold:
it is false that the bold beggar gets little.

I will not sit dejected in your gathering:
in the garden the breeze is nimble, the morning wind bold.

Where is the jealousy of mischief? For it is a place for jealousy:
modesty is always bold with my love's glance.

As fools come forward through service,
pride in love and faithfulness has made me bold.

The soul is bold at the lips from boundless longing:
tongue of the kiss, why did you call me bold?

Why was my wish to embrace you not granted?
For friends are bold with friends.

Can the reins of restraint be held by Shefta,
when every charm is nimble and every grace is bold?