This poem was translated by Professor Carlo Coppola as part of the MULOSIGE Translations project. You can explore our collection of Urdu Poetry here.
Isrāfīl kī maut / Death of Israfil
Weep for the death of Israfil—
The Chosen of God, the master of speech,
The eternal spirit of human sound;
The limitless cry of the heavens
Is today stilled, like a word broken away.
Weep for the death of Israfil!
.
Come, let us weep for his untimely sleep.
He lies near his trumpet
As if a storm had thrown him upon the shore,
Sleeping silently by his trumpet
In the bright sand!
His turban, hair and beard
All sand-disheveled!
Their folds were sometimes being and non-being.
His trumpet, enkindler
Of time early and time late, far from his lips,
Lost in its own cries, its own laments!
.
Weep for the death of Israfil,
He, tumult itself,
The sign of hidden voices stretched from
Eternity to eternity.
Legions of angels mourn
For Israfil’s death;
The son of Man, dust on his forehead, abject;
God’s eyes, dark with sorrow;
The heavenly alarm, silent;
No bugle call from the world of spirits.
.
With Israfil’s death,
This world, without the nourishment of voice,
The daily bread of musicians, of instruments!
.
The singer—how will he sing? And what?
The strings of the listener’s heart are mute.
How will the dancer whirl and dance?
The floor, door, the walls of the assembly are quiet
What now will the preacher say?
The threshold, dome and minaret are still
.
How will the hunter of thought spread his snare?
The birds of house and mountain are dumb.
Israfil’s death is the death of the listening ear, the speaking lips,
The seeking eye, the knowing heart;
Because of him, the clamor of the dervishes,
The growth of desire in the heart, the dialogue of lovers with lovers
Who today are hidden, their voices lost;
Now no more shouts of ‘tanānā hū!’ and ‘yarābā!’
No more cries in the street, even this, our last refuge, is lost.
.
With Israfil’s death
World-time seems to sleep, turned to stone
As if someone had eaten every voice.
.
Such solitude that even Perfect Beauty
Does not come to mind, that one even forgets one’s name.
.
With Israfil’s death
Even the world’s tyrants will forget
The vision of speechless dreams,
Dreams of mastery
Swelled with murmurs of the helpless.
.
With Munibur Rahman
.
From: Irān men̲ ajnabī. Lāhaur : Goshah-yi Adab, 1957. In: Kulliyāt-i rāshid (Collected Works of Rashed). Dihlī: Kitābī Dunyā, 2011. pp. 64 – 67
Weep for the death of Israfil—
The Chosen of God, the master of speech,
The eternal spirit of human sound;
The limitless cry of the heavens
Is today stilled, like a word broken away.
Weep for the death of Israfil!
.
Come, let us weep for his untimely sleep.
He lies near his trumpet
As if a storm had thrown him upon the shore,
Sleeping silently by his trumpet
In the bright sand!
His turban, hair and beard
All sand-disheveled!
Their folds were sometimes being and non-being.
His trumpet, enkindler
Of time early and time late, far from his lips,
Lost in its own cries, its own laments!
.
Weep for the death of Israfil,
He, tumult itself,
The sign of hidden voices stretched from
Eternity to eternity.
Legions of angels mourn
For Israfil’s death;
The son of Man, dust on his forehead, abject;
God’s eyes, dark with sorrow;
The heavenly alarm, silent;
No bugle call from the world of spirits.
.
With Israfil’s death,
This world, without the nourishment of voice,
The daily bread of musicians, of instruments!
.
The singer—how will he sing? And what?
The strings of the listener’s heart are mute.
How will the dancer whirl and dance?
The floor, door, the walls of the assembly are quiet
What now will the preacher say?
The threshold, dome and minaret are still
.
How will the hunter of thought spread his snare?
The birds of house and mountain are dumb.
Israfil’s death is the death of the listening ear, the speaking lips,
The seeking eye, the knowing heart;
Because of him, the clamor of the dervishes,
The growth of desire in the heart, the dialogue of lovers with lovers
Who today are hidden, their voices lost;
Now no more shouts of ‘tanānā hū!’ and ‘yarābā!’
No more cries in the street, even this, our last refuge, is lost.
.
With Israfil’s death
World-time seems to sleep, turned to stone
As if someone had eaten every voice.
.
Such solitude that even Perfect Beauty
Does not come to mind, that one even forgets one’s name.
.
With Israfil’s death
Even the world’s tyrants will forget
The vision of speechless dreams,
Dreams of mastery
Swelled with murmurs of the helpless.
.
With Munibur Rahman
.
From: Irān men̲ ajnabī. Lāhaur : Goshah-yi Adab, 1957. In: Kulliyāt-i rāshid (Collected Works of Rashed). Dihlī: Kitābī Dunyā, 2011. pp. 64 – 67
Leave A Comment