Lucknow, my homeland, my garden city!

In the cradle of your lap, O Life of Spring,

Having buried all which gave colour to my life, I depart.

The heart, whose beat you fashioned,

I bury here; now I depart.

Be careful, for the Life of Spring is buried in your soil;

Be careful, for my blossoming spirit is buried in your soil.

The golden period of my rose-clad, youthful ambitions,

The fragrant dreams of my first longings,

The glowing months and years of my awakened youth,

The sweetness of evenings and the beauty of my mornings.

The legend of my company and the spell of my solitude,

The madness of my desire and the price of my passion,

The slickness of my death and the decency of my living,

The chastity of my devotion and the glory of my love, 

The rhythm of my pulse and the music of my songs,

The decoration of my verses and the adornment of my art,

Lucknow! Having entrusted you with all I had, I depart;

Having entrusted you with all the wealth of my soul, I depart.

.

Lucknow! My homeland, my garden city!

Not only the burial place of my love is your soil, but

Many treasures of love’s yearnings are buried here,

Many memories take abode in this one scene:

A sister, having pledged herself to the love of her brother;

A mother, whose death could not extinguish the fire of the motherhood,

Clasping the childhood of her children to her bosom—

For the sake of her innocent budding flowers,

Accumulating the youthful dreams of spring in her closed eyes.

.

Not only the burial place of my love is your soil

A comrade is also sleeping under the soil here—

A comrade who bore the unscrupulous hardships of life

Who did not accept defeat, even in the face of death

And whose brow remained to the last calm with the firm determination of youth.

.

Not only the burial place of my love is your soil,

Look! A lamp is burning on the wayside,

And if some milestone glitters,

Life takes on a new speed.

Lucknow! My homeland, my garden city!

The wave of a soft breeze will whisper across your soil tomorrow

With the message of spring’s New Year’s Day,

Bringing a wreath of blooming roses with her.

Dawn will approach your soil; 

Tomorrow this dust will take on a new colour

And the picture of my love will emerge in all its splendour.

.

~~~

.

O Soul of My Spring, from the dust of your grave

I still enjoy the refreshing aroma of your love;

The wounds in my chest exude perfume of your spirit.

Such fragrance prevails that I am unable to breathe.

What excuses can the tyranny of Time demand of me?

Death itself feels shy to look at me face-to-face.

.

How terrible that I should see you buried under the earth.

This much agony! Oh no, it is unbearable.

Could someone extinguish sight from my eyes?

Could someone snatch away by glance?

May darkness prevail so that I cannot find my way!

.

What use is my weeping for you, for in these eyes

Tears are turned to stones.

Life is an arena of constant struggle

But this moment, my feet are fixed on the ground.

.

Still, from this arena of constant struggle

Someone calls me again and again.

Today I must leave you sleeping;

I must endure the blandishments of strife.

.

Life beckons me to travel, my Love,

And in this travel a flaming heart is my companion. 

On this journey you give me firm determination.

.

Kissing the particles of dust on your grave,

I place—with love—a wreath of flowers.

Who knows if I shall pass this way again?

Let me press you to my chest for the last time.

.

Lucknow! My homeland, my garden city!

Keep these treasured ashes of my Love in your eyes.

Keep this sacred trust pressed firmly to your bosom.

.

From: Jāvidān̲ (Forever). Bambaʼī: Idārah-yi Adab va Zindagī. n.d. (c. 1955). pp. 128 – 35