English Poetry
Don?t Ask Me for That Love AgainThat which then was ours, my love,
don't ask me for that love again.
The world then was gold, burnished with light --
and only because of you. That's what I had believed.
How could one weep for sorrows other than yours?
How could one have any sorrow but the one you gave?
So what were these protests, these rumors of injustice?
A glimpse of your face was evidence of springtime.
The sky, wherever I looked, was nothing but your eyes.
If You'd fall into my arms, Fate would be helpless.
All this I'd thought, all this I'd believed.
But there were other sorrows, comforts other than love.
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention. I can't help but look back
when I return from those alleys --what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing --what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world,
comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
Lost MemoryAt night my lost memory of you returned
and I was like the empty field where springtime,
without being noticed, is bringing flowers;
I was like the desert over which
the breeze moves gently, with great care;
I was like the dying patient
who, for no reason, smiles.
Moment Anywhere On This Earth. Each star a rung,
night comes down the spiral
staircase of the evening.
The breeze passes by so very close
as if someone just happened to speak of love.
In the courtyard,
the trees are absorbed refugees
embroidering maps of return on the sky.
On the roof,
the moon-lovingly, generously -
is turning the stars
into a dust of sheen.
From every corner, dark-green shadows,
in ripples, come towards me.
At any moment they may break over me,
like the waves of pain each time I remember
this separation from my lover.
This thought keeps consoling me:
though tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon, so today,
nor tomorrow, no tyranny will succeed,
no poison of torture make me bitter,
if just one evening in prison
can be so strangely sweet,
if just one moment anywhere on this earth.
Murdered In The Darkest Lanes. I longed for your lips, dreamed of their roses:
I was hanged from the dry branch of the scaffold.
I wanted to touch Your hands, their silver light:
I was murdered in the half-light of dim lanes.
And there where you were crucified,
so far away from my words,
you still were beautiful:
color kept clinging to your lips --
rapture was still vivid in your hair --
light remained silvering in your hands.
When the night of cruelty merged with tile roads
you had taken,
I came as far as my feet could bring me,
on my lips the phrase of a song,
my heart lit up only by sorrow.
This sorrow was my testimony to your beauty --
Look! I remained a witness till the end,
I who was killed in the darkest lanes.
It's true -- that not to reach you was fate --
but who'll deny that to love you
was entirely in my hands?
So why complain if these matters of desire
brought me inevitably to the execution grounds?
Why complain? Holding up our sorrows as banners,
new lovers will emerge
from the lanes where we were killed
and embark, in caravans, on those highways of desire.
It's because of them that we shortened the
distances of sorrow,
it's because of them that we went out to make
the world our own,
we who were murdered in the darkest lanes.
Before You Came,Before you came,
things were as they should be:
the sky was the dead-end of sight,
the road was just a road, wine merely wine.
Now everything is like my heart,
a color at the edge of blood:
the grey of your absence, the color of poison,
of thorns,
the gold when we meet, the season ablaze,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of
flames,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the coal of dead fires.
And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
the road a vein about to break,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the world keep changing.
Don't leave now that you're here --
Stay. So the world i-nay become like itself
again:
so the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.
Urdu Poetry
Muhabat
takdeer say baat karien gay.Ek din sogath karien
gay .kabi tu hejar ka lehga tutay.
muhabbat ko kherat karien gay.
joo bechar gaya hai phir kabi na milay .
yeah duwa aaj ke raat karien gay.
joo aapnay janoon ke piyaas bujhay.
aab milay tu asee baat karien gay.
Sarabjoo mil gaya usay yaad rukh.
joo na mila usay bhool ja.
joo mil gaya woh aaab hai .
joo na mila woh sarab tha .
Badalte Ruteinbhege bhege the hawa pechala pahir raat ka tha .
sur mein nasha bhi buth tum say mulakat ka tha .
hejar ke aag mein chup chap jalay thay doo dil .
kuch kasoor us mein mere jaan meray halaat ka
bhi tha .
mere kismat nay chuna tha mere ankhoon kay liya .
mosamooh mein wohi mosam barsaat ka tha .
bewafahe ka gar us say gela tha muj ko .
runj us ko bhi buth mere kisse baat ka tha .
khushk tahni par keeli jaatien thein kaliyaan
lakoon.
yeah bhi ejaz tha tu --- tu ese baat ka tha .
Baat Phulon ki Baat Phulon ki Suna Kartay thay
Ham Kabhi Shair Kaha Kartay Thay
Mashalain Lay Kay Tumharay Gham Ki
Ham Andharoin Main Chala Kartay Thay
Ab Kahan Aisi Tabiyat Walay
Chot kha Kar Jo Duwa Kartay Thay
Tarkay Ahsaasay Muhabat Mushkil
Han Magr Ahlay Wafa Kartay Thay
Bikhri Bikhri Zulfoin Walay
Qaaflay Rouk Liya Kartay Thay
Aaj Gulshan Main Shagoofay Saghar
Shikwaiy Baaday Saba Kartay Thay
