داغ

The grandeur of Ghalib has remained buried since long; Mahdi Majrooh* is the cemetery's resident since long.

Death broke the decanter of Amir* in a strange country’ the assembly's eye still has the ecstasy of the wine of Amir.

However, today O Companion! The whole garden is mourning! Lighted candle is extinguished, literary assembly is mourning!

The Delhi's nightingale made its nest in such a garden; where all the world's nightingales are singing in a chorus.

Ah Dagh has gone! His bier is on our shoulders. The last poet of Jahanabad is finally silent.

Gone is that smartness! Gone is that humor of style! The fire of youth was veiled in the old age's camphor.*

Every heart has the longing which the language of Dagh had; this Lailah was unveiled there, she is behind the veil here.

Who will ask zephyr now the secret of silence of the rose? Who in the garden will understand the secret of nightingale's wailing?

In his elegant imagination he was not unaware of reality: The bird's eye remained focused on the nest even in flight.

Others will show us the subtleties of linguistic thought; the elevated elegance of the sagacity of their thought.

They will make us cry painting the picture of time's vicissitudes; or will show us the new world of their imagination.

Nightingales of Shiraz also will be born in this garden; there will be hundreds of magicians and masters of miracles.

Thousands of Azar’s will rise from the temple of poetry. The new cup-bearers will serve wine from the new goblets.

Many commentaries of the book of Love will be written; there will be many interpretations of the youths' dreams.

However, who will draw the exact picture of Love? The master having departed; who will enchant the heart?

I am sowing the seeds of tears in the soil of verse. You also cry O Delhi's soil! I am crying for Dagh!

Ah! O the Ka'bah of the literateur's religion; your garden has been ruined by autumn today.

That colourful rose of yours has departed like fragrance; that is, the abode of Urdu has become deprived of Dagh.

Perhaps not much attraction was in the homeland's soil; that full moon has set in the soil of the Dakkan.

The cup-bearers have left; the tavern has become deserted; only Hali the memorable personality of Delhi's assembly has been left.

The tyranny of death makes longing shed tears of blood; the archer of death shoots out arrows in the dark.

However, the tongue cannot open in complaint; autumn's style is also a prelude to garden's existence.*

The one universal law creates all such results: Exit of fragrance from the garden, that of the gardener from the world