See, in the late hours of night, the pale moon rises from the well of night;

Haltingly the mind opens the old book of the past,

.

The meaningless records of memories, the sad meteors of dreams

All say with a tongue of silence, “O wretch,

Whether a century or a moment, a thing of the past is an impression on the water.”

This is the story of our journey in this peopled desolation.

.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

In the centre of the city of desire, a fair is going on;

Everywhere a colourful garden of toys has blossomed forth; 

The kid who did not receive a cent from home

Let go the hand of his father and was lost in the hubbub of the fair;

When he realised this, he became very astonished at finding himself alone

In this peopled desolation; he did not find his house through the crowd;

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

That kid is still astonished; the fair is still being held as before;

He silently puzzled at the goods being sold in the bazaar.

In one place, nobility; at another, high-mindedness; in one place, love; at another, fidelity;

Somewhere it is the family being sold; somewhere else, great people; and somewhere else, God.

We finally left this fool in his confusion

And found a way to escape in this peopled desolation.

.

Lips are accustomed to smiling; otherwise in the soul

There are pierced so many poisonous lancets, which have no count.

How many times has this widespread earth narrowed down on us?

The forehead about which we are so proud has often bent itself in prostration.

Sometimes a mean person is the master; sometimes a fool is the king;

We even sold the respect of our talent in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

Long leagues are the sorrows of love and I, the seeker of bread for the night;

Sometimes I got entangled in the gardens and sometimes the smell of the wheat

Became the heady musk of Tasktar and carried me everywhere.

This same lightning-natured life sometimes became idle, sometimes grew;

Sometimes I took fright of love like a wild gazelle,

And sometimes passed the night in the throes of death in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

Sometimes I got beaten at the hands of the cruel foe

That I had to suffer contempt in the land of sorrow and for years my conditions were bad;

And when the day came forth, ages passed and there was no night;

Everywhere sweethearts, simple but tyrannical; everywhere, presents of kindness and generosity;

Glances, cold like dew; words, like the fragrance of flowers;

One way or the other, we overcame this stage in this peopled desolation.

.

~~~

.

Who were the friends the wayfarer of longing found on his path?

He came across the clouds of spring, the reflections 

Of the sweethearts, the moles on the cheeks of the beloveds.

Some were just figurines of clay; some, sharp like a dagger;

Some were found in the whirlpool; some on the bank, 

And some on the other side of the river.

But with everyone, in every state, I met them with out-stretched hands?

I only looked at their virtue in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

The whole story is unconnected; the pages are faded.

Where are all those from whom even a moment’s separation was an agony?

There is no wound anywhere, although there intervenes a separation of years.

See how many agreements have been eaten away by

The moth of forgetfulness.

Friends have become resigned to losing me. Well, the debt has been paid off.

The secret of one’s influence was at last exposed in this peopled desolation?

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

I dreamed that one day I would touch the Milky Way from earth’s height.

I would play with the roseate twilight and swing upon the rainbow, would

I would walk like the spring breeze, blossom like mustard plants;

I would forget the sorrows and hardships in the colorful cluster of pleasure.

I would take a fragrant smell in return for the scar of the flower and bud.

But I received the pain of the heart’s wounds in this peopled desolation.

.

Sometimes I debased myself for a penny and sometimes I got up

And leaving a whole apronful of money in such a way 

As if were I to touch it, I would become a pauper.

When I tried to be clever, I ruined everything and a simple move came out right.

How much did I explore the plain of love, like Majnun, with blistered feet?

Sometimes like Alexander, sometimes a dervish, sometimes a whirlwind?

I mimicked these roles and passed by time in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

God only knows what life is; hunger, search, tears, escape;

Babies like flowers, beautiful women, men full of the joy of life;

Why do all these often wither away? After all, who is it that has made

The soul of the earth diseased? And from which earth sprout 

These poisonous thoughts? Why living merely forced labor without pay?

I overlooked all these things in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

~~~

.

Somewhere in the distance a koil bird cried out; far away in night’s silence

The fragrant mango flowers must be scattered on the tender earth;

In bonds, work-weary young boys must be singing to lessen the load of toil.

See the light of dawn burst forth from the well of night; I, sometimes sad, 

Sometimes happy, am thinking of this and that in this peopled desolation.

.

Even now my eyes are far from sleep, though they are sleepless the whole night;

The meaningless registers of memory, the sad meteors of dreams

Are all saying with the tongue of silence, “O wretch, a thing past, 

Whether a century or a moment, a thing past is an impression on the water.”

Think of the future; put away this ancient, time-worn book of the past.

This is the stage of judgement, of understanding in this peopled desolation.

See how we lived in this peopled desolation.

.

June 1957

From: Yāden̲ (Remembrances), 1963. pp. 215 – 21