(1944)

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( 1 )

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Black trees are now reduced to their own shadows;

From the earth to the moon and stars, minarets of silence;

Wherever the glance goes, a deep state of being lost; 

The eyelashes of sad lamps have wilted one by one;

Those still open are about to fade;

In moonlight’s mirror is reflected

The waking dream of sweet exhilarating scenes;

In the sky the stars are starting to yawns.

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( 2 )

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At places, betal-sellers’ shops are open;

On some dozing, advancing roads the jingle of big carriage bells;

Weeping nyctanthe trees stand silently in the dew

Like a bride heavy with the fragrance of modesty.

This wave of light, this full, open night,

Like a white lotus continually opening;

How far is the Russian army from Berlin?

Someone is waking the magic of midnight.

The wine of existence overflows from the cup of non-being.

The midnight space, an intoxicated narcissus;

The fingertips of the lotus hold the bride-hood of the river.

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( 3 )

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The couch of grace (beauty), this youthful bosom;

The blinking of the lotus eye, the spell of love-beauty; 

This thick shadow of the attar-drenched eyelashes. 

In the sky, the plucking of nature’s instrument

By the scattered moon and stars with their shining fingers;

Songs are about to awaken—you, too, rise from sleep.

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  ( 4 )

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The moonbeam kissed the songs in such a way

That in midriver the cluster of lotus blossoms opened;

If there were no poverty, how beautiful would this world be.

This chirping of a cricket from time to time

This soft rustling in the henna-fence bush;

In the breast of space a silent hissing,

A trembling in the tresses of the night-goddess;

This universe must have now taken a wink of sleep.

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( 5 )

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Under the water, colourful fishes are drowned in sleep;

In the courtyard tank they no more tease each other;

These hibiscus flowers, their heads drooped on branches,

Like coals cold without being extinguished;

Is this moonlight? Or an ocean of nectar swelling?

Only man is so tormented in the world.

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( 6 )

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Near the moon, a bird circles

Like a boat spinning in the whirlpool of light, tilted on one side 

Like some dream nurtured in the breast of a poet—

A dream in whose mould a new life is formed;

A dream by which the old system of sorrow changes.

From where comes this glow of the jasmine bush

As though thousands of fairies scatter rose water? 

As though thousands of jungle-goddesses on the wing

Open their hair at the same time with a unique grace?

There is no news of the revolution

On sound of those footsteps to which the ears of the stars are fastened;

The heart of the stars throb; eardrums sound.

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( 7 )

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This breathing universe, the moonlit night;

This quiet, mysterious, sorrowful scene,

These blue waves of soft wind;

Behind space, dead men murmur;

This night is the colourless smile of death;

All the smoky scenes tearful;

The eyes of cold darkness also half-asleep.

Are these stars or a shroud of tears over the world?

Life tosses and turns behind the night’s curtain;

The magic of midnight has woken up a little more;

How much time must pass before the war ends?

I think it must be one o’clock.

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( 8 )  

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Flowers covered their face in a sheet of dew;

The smile of buds went to sleep on their lips;

The tresses of the hyacinth do not move;

The borders of midnight silence are nowhere to be found;

Perhaps there is not much delay now for the revolution.

Several caravans are passing in thru the darkness;

Midnight silence is the sound of footsteps;

Midnight’s magic has awakened a bit more.

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( 9 )

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New earth, new sky, new world;

New stars, new rotations, new days and nights; 

From earth to the heavens, waiting;

In pale space, faded dust;

Disintegration depicting life in the form of death;

Are these the waves of smoke or the pulses of faded space?

This life-period, all fatigue and weariness;

Tired stars, tired night;

This cold, soul-less, insipid, dazzle;

It is death-sweat of the second system*;

This universe was drowned in itself;

It will emerge again, shining from its own womb

Like a snake shimmying after changing its skin.

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( 10 )

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Moonbeams dance in cold space;

Or is it a soft drizzle falling on crystal?

This wave of innocent unawareness, this hang-over of the body, 

This breath drowned in sleep, this eye half-drunk

Now come and sleep, clinging to my breast;

Close these eyelashes and lose yourself in me.

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From:  Rūḥ-i kāʼināt (Soul of the World). Gorakhpūr: Aivān-i Ishāʻat Ghar, 1945. pp. 264 – 71