گورستان شاہي

The sky is clothed in the cloud’s old tattered robe. The mirror of moon’s forehead is somewhat gloomy.

The moon light is pale in this silent panorama. The dawn is sleeping in the lap of the night.

How astonishing is silence of the trees; this silence is the soft tune of Nature’s harp.

The heart of every speck of the universe is pathos embodied and the silence is a sad sigh on the lips of existence.

Ah! That fort, that universal mustering ground is carrying millennia’s weight on its shoulders.

Was full of life at one time, now is desolate; this silence is the cemetery of its past elegance.

It is the lover of the remains of its old denizens. It is standing on the mountain top like a sentinel.

There from the cloud’s window above the sky’s roof that young green star is viewing the universe.

The earth’s vast expanse is a mere child’s play to it. The story of Man’s failure is known to it by heart.

This traveler is going to his destination since eternity; seeing revolutions’ spectacles from the sky’s seclusion.

Though quiescence of the star is not possible in the universe; it has stopped momentarily for saying prayer for the dead.

This earth is full of flowers of life’s variegations. This earth is the cemetery of many destroyed civilizations.

This grief-stricken stage is the resting place of kings; O admonished eye! Pay the tribute of rosy tears.

Though a mere cemetery, this dust ranks with the sky. Ah! This is the wealth of an unfortunate nation!

So astounding is the grandeur of mausoleums that the spectator’s eye evades even winking.

Such an expression of failure is in this picture; which is impossible to reflect in description’s mirror.

Far from the habitations’ crowds are sleeping; those who were restless with unfulfilled Longings.

The grave’s darkness holds the brilliance of those suns; at whose thresholds the sky used to remain prostrating.

Is this the end of these emperors’ magnificence; whose diplomatic policies knew no decline?

Be it the grandeur of Qaisar or Faghfur’s sway; the foe of death’s assault cannot be turned away.

The result of kings’ life-efforts also is the grave. The last stage on path of magnificence is the grave.

Neither the happy assembly’s commotion nor the genius’ talk; not even the wailing people’s whole night’s compassion!

Neither the tumult of the sword in the battle; nor the cry of blood warming Takbir!

No call can wake up those who are sleeping; no life can return to the desolate breast.

The soul in the handful of dust* is enduring injustice; when breath enters non-existence’ flute it is a mere complaint.

Human life resembles the sweet singing bird, which sat on the branch a while, chirped, flew away.

Ah! For what purpose did we come in the world, for what purpose did we go away! Sprouted from the life’s branch, blossomed, faded away.

Death is interpretation of the dream of the king and the poor alike; this atrocious one’s terror is the picture of justice.*

The stream of life is a boundless ocean and the grave is a wave of this boundless ocean.

O ambition! Shed tears of blood as this life is unreliable; it is the smile of the spark, it is the flammable straw.

This moon which is a miracle of the Lord of the universe; clad in the robe of gold is slowly and proudly strolling.

But in the frightening vastness of the starless sky, its helplessness is worth watching at time of dawn.

What was the moon is a mere piece of cloud; whose destruction is in the last tear drop.

Similarly unpredictable is the life of nations; their glory is a picture of the happy times gone by.

In this world no nation however prestigious it may be can continue its existence till the end of time.

So much accustomed to nations’ destruction is the universe that it watches this scene with indifference.

Nothing stays the same without change. The universe’ nature is made of change.

The beauty of world’s jewel is in ever-changing names. The mother earth has always remained expecting new nations!

This highway is acquainted with thousands of caravans. Koh-i-Noor’s eye is familiar with innumerable kings.

Egypt and Babylon are annihilated, not a mark remains; the roll of existence does not have even their names.

The evening of death has overpowered the sun of Iran. Time has robbed the grandeur of Greece and Rome.

Ah! The Muslim also from the world similarly departed; the Aziri* cloud appeared over the horizon, rained and departed.

The rose petal’s vein is a string of pearls with dawn’s tears; some ray of the sun is enmeshed in the dew.

The river’s breast is the cradle for sun’s rays: How beautiful is the sun’s sight at the river bank!

Juniper is busy in beautifying; river is the mirror; for the flower bud spring breeze is the mirror.

The cuckoo remains calling from the garden’s nest; remains hidden from the human eye in the leaves’ privacy.

And the nightingale, the flowery singer of the garden; by whose presence is alive the glory of the garden:

Is a living picture of the commotion of Love: How beautiful is this picture from Nature’s pen!

In the garden the rose’s silent assemblies are holding. The shepherd boys’ shouts in the valley are echoing.

This old world is so full of life that in death also is hidden the zest of life.

The petals fall in autumn in the same way as toys fall from the sleeping infant’s hand.

In this cheerful world though luxury is limitless; one grief that is grief of the Millat is always fresh.

Memories of the age gone by are still fresh in our heart; this Ummah cannot erase its kings’ memories form its heart.

These desolate mansions are excuses for shedding tears; insight has developed in the eye with continuous tears.

We give to the world the pearls of the weeping eye; we are the remaining clouds of a storm gone by.

There are hundreds of pearls in this cloud’s breast; thunder still lurks in this cloud’s silent breast.

It can change the dry wilderness to a flowery vale; it can change the farmer’s hope from slumber to awakening.

The manifestation of this nation’s majesty has passed, but the manifestation of its beauty has not yet passed.