Loneliness

Loneliness like a good, old friend
visits my house to pour wine in the evening.
And we sit together, waiting for the moon,
and for your face to sparkle in every shadow.

 

Last Night

Last night your lost memory visited my heart
as spring visits the wilderness quietly,
as the breeze echoes the silence of her footfalls
in the desert,
as peace slowly, softly descends on one's sickness.

 

Tonight

Do not strike the chord of sorrow tonight!
Days burning with pain turn to ashes.
Who knows what happens tomorrow?
Last night is lost; tomorrow's frontier wiped out:
Who knows if there will be another dawn?
Life is nothing, it's only tonight!
Tonight we can be what the gods are!

Do not strike the chord of sorrow, tonight!
Do not repeat stories of sufferings now,
Do not complain, let your fate play its role,
Do not think of tomorrows, give a damn--
Shed no tears for seasons gone by,
All sighs and cries wind up their tales,
Oh, do not strike the same chord again!

Speak

Speak, your lips are free.
Speak, it is your own tongue.
Speak, it is your own body.
Speak, your life is still yours.

See how in the blacksmith's shop
The flame burns wild, the iron glows red;
The locks open their jaws,
And every chain begins to break.

Speak, this brief hour is long enough
Before the death of body and tongue:
Speak, 'cause the truth is not dead yet,
Speak, speak, whatever you must speak.

 

Stanza

If they snatch my ink and pen,
I should not complain,
For I have dipped my fingers
In the blood of my heart.
I should not complain
Even if they seal my tongue,
For every ring of my chain
Is a tongue ready to speak.

 

 

My Interview

The wall has grown all black, upto the circling roof.
Roads are empty, travellers all gone. Once again
My night begins to converse with its loneliness;
My visitor I feel has come once again.
Henna stains one palm, blood wets another;
One eye poisons, the other cures.

None leaves or enters my heart's lodging;
Loneliness leaves the flower of pain unwatered,
Who is there to fill the cup of its wound with color?

My visitor I feel has come once again,
Of her own will, my old friend--her name
Is Death: a friend in need, yet an enemy--
The murderess and the sweetheart!

Translated by Azfar Hussain

 

 

WHEN AUTUMN CAME

This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
left their ebony bodies naked.
It shook out their hearts, the yellow leaves,
scattered them over the ground.
Anyone could trample them out of shape
undisturbed by a single moan of protest.

The birds that herald dreams
were exiled from their song,
each voice torn out of its throat.
They dropped into the dust
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Oh, God of May have mercy.
Bless these withered bodies
with the passion of your resurrection;
make their dead veins flow with blood again.

Give some tree the gift of green again.
Let one bird sing.

 

ONCE AGAIN THE MIND

Today, as usual, the mind goes hunting for a word,
one filled with venom, a word
sultry with honey, heavy with love,
     smashing with fury.
The word of love must be brilliant as a glance
which greets the eye like a kiss on the lips,
bright as a summer river, its surface streaming gold,
joyous as the moment when the beloved enters
     for the appointed meeting.

The word of rage must be a ferocious blade
that brings down for all time the oppressor's citadel.
The word must be dark as the night of a crematorium;
if I bring it to my lips
     it will blacken them forever.

Today every instrument is forsaken by its melody,
and the singer's voice goes searching for its singer.
Today the chords of every harp are shredded
like a madman's shirt. Today
the people beg each gust of wind
to bring any sound at all, even a lamentation,
even a scream of anguish,
or the last trump crying the hour of doom.

              

BEFORE YOU CAME

Before you came things were just what they were:
the road precisely a road, the horizon fixed,
the limit of what could be seen,
a glass of wine no more than a glass of wine.

With you the world took on the spectrum
radiating from my heart: your eyes gold
as they open to me, slate the colour
that falls each time I lose all hope.

With your advent roses burst into flame:
you were the artist of dried-up leaves, sorceress
who flicked her wrist to change dust into soot.
You lacquered the night black.

As for the sky, the road, the cup of wine:
one was my tear-drenched shirt,
the other an aching nerve,
the third a mirror that never reflected the same thing.

Now you are here again - stay with me.
This time things will fall into place;
the road can be the road,
the sky nothing but the sky;
the glass of wine, as it should be, the glass of wine.

               translated by Naomi Lazard

Don’t Ask Me for That Love Again That 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.

Translation By Agha Shahid Ali
Copyright 1991, 1995 by Agha Shahid Ali

Freedom's Dawn

 

This daybreak, pockmarked-
this morning, night-bitten.  
Surely it is not the morning we'd longed for 
in whose eager quest all comrades 
had set out, hoping that somewhere 
in the wilderness of the - sky 
would appear the ultimate destination of stars. 
Somewhere the wave of the slow night will meet the shore 
and somewhere will anchor the boat of the heart's grief. 

As our friends set out on the mysterious highways 
of young blood, how many hands caught them by the sleeve. 
From the dreamlands of beauty's pleasure-houses 
kept beckoning, to them, impatiently, seductive arms and bodies. 
But we yearned only for the morning's face, 
even though within easy reach was the hem of the radiant  beauties. 
Delicate was our longing and faint our sense of exhaustion.          

It's heard that light and darkness have parted- 
also, that there's now union between quest and goal 
that the lot of the afflicted is now changed          
that granted is the pleasure of union 
and banished is the torment of separation.          

Fire in the bosom, longing in the eyes, and the heart-burn- 
nothing can solve the problem of separation. 
Where did the sweet breeze come from and where did it vanish- 
the street lamp has no news yet. 
Even the night's heaviness is just the same; 
still the moment of salvation has not arrived          
for the heart and the eye. 
So let's press on as the destination is still far away. 

With thanks to Salima Hashmi & The Faiz Foundation 

* * * * * * * * * *

Aj Ki Raat

Aj ki raat saz-e-dard na chhed;
Duukh se bhar-pur din tamaam hu'e,
Aur kal ki khabr kise ma'lum?
Dosh o farda ki mith-chuki hain hudud?
Ho no ho ab sahar, kise ma'lum?
Zindagi hech! Lekin aaj ki raat--
Izadiyat hai mumkin aaj ki raat--

Aaj ki rat saz-e-dard na chhed;
Ab na duhra fasanaha-e-alam,
Apni qismat pe sogwar na ho,
Fikr-e-farda utar-de dil se,
'Umr-e-rafta pe ashkbar na ho;
'Ahd-e-gram ki hikayaten mat puchh;
Aay ki rat saz-e-dard na cheed;