Ghazals I

Ghazals I

Ghazal: The very cure of my heart is a calamity for my life

The very cure of my heart is a calamity for my life:
why then should anyone become the healer of my heart?

Why have you gathered a crowd on seeing me restless?
Is my heart's writhing some kind of show?

In the market of love fate makes the price fall:
my heart's bargain is made and spoilt again and again.

If she is not content with the judgement of the Last Day,
O God, what then will become of my heart?

What could they have given Farhad and Qais at the sharing out?
The courage-wasting grief was my heart's share.

Though I may not stay in my love's gathering, yet every day,
Tasleem, my heart will be talked of just the same.

Ghazal: From drinking wine, the heart's longing has grown even more

From drinking wine, the heart's longing has grown even more:
by your life, cupbearer, one more cup of wine.

For one thing I myself, counsellor, am troubled and worn out;
your unwanted advice wounds my heart even more.

The tale of my heart's longing was not so short:
had you listened with attention, I would have told you more.

My restless heart was somewhat wild by nature to begin with;
without you, alone, it frets day and night even more.

Even as I watched, Tasleem, she began to hide:
in her unveiling the veil between us grew even more.

Ghazal: Never, even by mistake, look towards the rivals

Never, even by mistake, look towards the rivals:
this is the condition of faithfulness; take care to look.

Like the candle, I sat still and crossed the road to non-being:
friends, it is a miracle; look at my going!

At the hour of death the soul says to the heart, "Be watchful:
we are going to non-being; look after house and home."

God, the restlessness of the longing to see my love!
In the space of one glance, to look a hundred times.

Tasleem, to look at your love's face with the eye of longing
every time, in your eagerness, is not good.

Ghazal: You are tired, but the longing for the taste of martyrdom is no less

You are tired, but the longing for the taste of martyrdom is no less:
take breath from me, if there is no breath left in the sword of cruelty. [TN: a pun: *dam*, "breath" and "the temper of a blade".]

Those in pain from eternity do not worry about a cure:
the hundred-torn breast of the rose owes nothing to ointment.

Every day thousands die on seeing the wonders of beauty:
if this is your state, then this is no world. [TN: a pun: *alam*, "state" and "world".]

We have died and gone, yet the same tales of our love are told on every side:
even after death the clamour of our disgrace is no less.

If the fire-raining lament is at its height like this,
then either you are not, O mischief-making sky, or we are not.

The sky weeps at the brevity of the garden's spring:
on the face of the rose are drops of tears, not dew.

Tasleem, my kin and relations are glad at my death:
it is as if a house of joy, not a house of mourning.

Ghazal: Until the scent of my love has touched the garden

Until the scent of my love has touched the garden,
no colour comes to any flower, nor any scent.

The joy of martyrdom is when I advance from this side
and the sword of cruelty, drawn from that side, comes to my throat.

If God gives one the sense of smell in the garden of love,
from every rose comes the scent of your robe.

The spear is long of tongue, the wound foul-mouthed:
let no quarrelsome talk arise between the two. [TN: the wound is a "mouth" torn open; the spear's point a "tongue".]

What beauty of expression can Tasleem show in poetry,
when he has neither the language nor the manner of speech?

Ghazal: From the unseen, the wanderers of the desert found their cure

From the unseen, the wanderers of the desert found their cure:
the skirt of madness's wilderness became a dressing for the wounds.

Death came, and we lived, freed from grief and sorrow:
this is a new kind of dying, which has come to be called living.

Like a bubble, I never opened my eyes even to see myself:
in the sea of being, it was only a drumbeat of a breath.

This is not an age in which anyone may speak the truth:
remember what havoc was raised over Mansur. [TN: Mansur al-Hallaj, executed in 922 for crying "I am the Truth".]

What forms did the burning of my love not take!
It became a tear in my eyes, a blister on my lips.

The moment she set her foot on my breast in coquetry,
my heart grew cool, and my liver swelled with pride. [TN: *kaleja hath bhar ka hona*, "the liver growing a hand's length", is to be overjoyed.]

We nursed it at our side for ages, and we are no one to it;
you looked once, and the heart became yours.

We are a *majzub* in name, but within, as it were, something else: [TN: *majzub*, one drawn and enraptured by God, whose words are thought to come true.]
whatever, good or bad, came from our mouth, came to pass.

Ever since, Tasleem, you swore allegiance at the hand of the jug,
the cup has become your religion, and the flask your faith.

Ghazal: I mean, from the longing for her waist and love of her mouth, to create

I mean, from the longing for her waist and love of her mouth, to create
two dwellings in one heart. [TN: the beloved's waist and mouth are so fine as to be "nothing"; to make room for both is a feat.]

If with a lofty nature I create height of expression,
I can create a sky even in the ground of verse. [TN: a pun: *zamin*, "ground", the metre and rhyme of a ghazal.]

I am so heart-burnt that with the power of a hot sigh
I could create a season of autumn even in the garden of Paradise.

My feet say, on coming into your lane, from weakness:
"You let me fall, and I shall create a heavy sleep."

Even now if you come, for the sake of one glance in my eyes
I shall search and create a little feeble life.

O Tasleem, I am the pupil of Naseem Dehlavi: [TN: Asghar Ali Khan Naseem Dehlavi (d. 1864), a pupil of Momin.]
I ought to create my master's manner of expression.

Ghazal: In union, my love's tresses were often made up and undone

In union, my love's tresses were often made up and undone;
all night the tresses tangled and untangled with my fate.

I will not believe she will ever be granted such darkness:
the tresses must have joined the night of the Resurrection.

What if union came about after much pleading?
She sat out of stubbornness, doing her tresses all night.

She wants me to stay dishevelled even after death:
she comes to my grave and loosens her tresses.

That envy of the fairies flew still further away:
the tresses became the pinions for beauty's flight.

My wish is, be it the Night of Power or the evening of hope, [TN: *Shab-e-Qadr*, the holiest night of Ramadan.]
that God should show me nothing after showing me your tresses.

These too are the coils of fate; otherwise, Tasleem,
how should one as free as I be bound by ambergris tresses?