To you, my love, the Taj is a symbol of love. That’s all right.

All right too that you venerate this, the valley where it sets.

But meet me somewhere else.

.

The poor visiting the royal assembly? Absurd.

What’s the sense of lovers journeying on 

That road which bears the prints of royalty’s contempt?

Look at the emblems of arrogant majesty, my love, 

The backgrounds to this sign of love.

Do dead kings’ tombs delight you? 

If so, look into your own dark home.

In this world countless people have loved.

Who says their passions weren’t true?

They just couldn’t afford a public display like this

Because they were paupers—like us.

These buildings and tombs, these abutments and forts 

Are a despot’s pillars of majesty,

Embroidery on the hem of Time in that color 

Which is mingled with the blood of your ancestors and mine

Who, my love, must have loved, too.

It was their art that shaped this exquisite form. 

But their beloveds’ tombs stand without name or fame; 

Until today, no one even lit a candle for them.

This garden, this place on the river’s bank,

These carved doors and walls, this arch, this vault—what are they?

The mocking of the love of our poor 

By an emperor propped upon his wealth.

My love, meet me somewhere else. 

.

        With M. H. K Qureshi

.

From: Talk̲h̲iyān̲ (Bitternesses). Dihlī: Panjābī Pustak Bhanḍār, 1963. pp. 80 – 82

Tāj maḥal is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970