ذوق و شوق

I could not go to my friends empty-handed from an orchard!

The morning sun’s silver beams are absorbed in the sand; the eyes are bathed in radiance; the mind is lost in thought.

Eternal beauty is revealed, and life’s image unveiled; the heart is softened in ravishment, the eyes are dazed by the sun.

The night clouds are drifting, in scattered colours on the hill; the balmy air has bathed the trees, and the sand is soft as silk.

The rain storm has cleansed the air, leafs of date-palm tree have been washed; the sand dunes (of anger) in my heart have turned soft like silk.

Ashes of a fire and ropes of tents is all that remains behind: The only imprints that the caravans have left behind as they marched.

I heard the angel Gabriel saying to me: This indeed is your station – for those acquainted with the pleasure of separation, this is the everlasting comfort.

To whom should I say that the wine of life is poison to me: I have new experiences while the universe is decadent entire.

The temples reared by holy men are waiting to be demolished: Is there no idol-breaker new-born; no Ghaznavi in the battlefield?

There is neither Arab passion, nor Ajami refinement, in the deeds of the one, in the thought of the other.

The regions of Euphrates have waited, and waited in vain, for a martyr like Hussain, on a death-defying march.

Love is the mentor of the eye, of the heart and reason; faith without Love is a pantheon of fantasies.

Love is Abraham’s faith; Love is Hussain’s endurance; Love is Badr and Hunayn, on the battlefield of life.

Of this varied world thou art the meaning long sought: Long sought by multitudes of men, from every corner of the earth.

The disciples in tile schools are insipid and purblind; the esoteric few have an empty unseening soul.

My song seeks to recapture the flame that has been lost: To rediscover the great and noble souls of the past.

As the breeze infuses life into the green earth, my fire-breathing song infuses passion into men.

It is my life-blood that nourishes my song; the harpist’s blood streams in the strings of the harp.

Let not this anxious heart of mine have a spasm to struggle; bright are Thy tresses, brighten them even more.

اس دل بیقرار کو کشمکش میں رہنے کی فرصت نہ دے؛ اپنے گیسوئے پیچیدہ میں ایک دو شکن کا اور اضافہ کر دے۔

Thou writest my book of fate; Thou art my arbiter; the starlit dome, in its expanse, is but a bubble in Thy Sea.

The myriad-coloured earth is illumined by Thee; Thou makest even a piece of sand as radiant as the sun.

The majesty of kings is but a reflection of Thy power; the sanctity of pious men is a mirror of Thy beauty.

If my prayer is not inspired by a love of Thee, my prayer is futile; my bowing to Thee is a pose.

To my reason Thou didst give the quest born of Absence, and to my love for Thee, Thy Presence and anxiety.

The earth is dark, benighted; revolving round the old sun, bring the dawn of life to the earth, with Thy glimpse unveiled.

Thou knowest all about my past and my present; I had not known that knowledge is a tree without fruit.

That old battle was raged in my heart again, between love, which is all good, and reason, which is all evil.

Love has a strange beginning, and a strange end: It snatches by excuses sometimes, and drags by force at others.

کبھی تو یہ ایسی تدبیروں سے کام لیتا ہے جو فرد کو منزل مراد تک پہنچانے میں مدد دیتی ہیں او کبھی بزور قوت اس کی توجہ اپنی جانب منعطف کراتا ہے

In the world of passion, Absence is greater than Presence, Absence is the pleasure of yearning, Presence is desire’s death.

In fulfilment in the past, perception I had none; though my audacious eye was looking for pretences.

The wave’s enduring quest, the rain-drop’s search to be a pearl, the heart’s eternal yearning, are all before fulfilme