I was glad my country was now free from foreign rule;

Glad I was that my country was free from the shadow of bondage;

I was glad that night had passed;

Glad I was that dawn had arisen.

How moulded was my garden in the fullness of light,

For now, I shall rule my garden’s springs.

.

I was glad that the time would not be far away

When happiness would rise from every cup and bowl,

When the face of the soil would reflect the luster of pear and silver,

When workmen’s foreheads would be drenched with the hues of roses.

.

I thought that the bud in my heart was about of blossom

And the sweetness of my drams was about to embrace reality.

.

Glad I was that flowers would be threaded into wreaths,

Moonlight would spread her silver skirt upon the earth,

The soft breeze would light the lamp of the lotus,

I would weave a net of golden hopes

From smiling rays I gathered.

.

I was glad that the sitar and drums would echo,

That the melody of action would prevail everywhere,

each and every atom would open into flight;

Life would take pride in her actions;

A note of music would rise in Man’s bosom

That forever, Time would be changed.

.

If not today, then tomorrow every dishevelled lock would be combed;

Tomorrow the flowers’ colours would flaunt a new luster;

Tomorrow the pulse of straw would take a new beating,

Tomorrow the Ganges’ flow would pass over the Himalayas,

The rainbow would shower her hues upon the earth,

And tomorrow the sun would shyly look the land of Ind in the eye.

.

How could I know that a glance itself was bound by vision?

That this spell of the moon and stars lived so long as night departed,

That these showering pearls were only the mystic charms of burning sparks,

That autumn would secretly conjure up the magic of springs 

And this magic would break in a moment

And the blood of spring would drop from every pointed thorn.

How was I to know that my hopes would vanish,

That Time would bring forth a cup of blood,

That no wave of light would pierce the darkness of my thoughts,

That evening would approach before dawn would arise.

Who knew that we would gulp this poison,

That the brow of India would perspire the cold sweat of death? 

.

~~~

.

Hands had not yet touched the faded rose;

The flowers had not yet been threaded into wreaths;

The cup had not yet reached the tips of the one would break it to pieces.

Someone robbed me of my dreams; or worse, of my being.

Time has brought me the picture I had painted with the light of dusk,

But in flames.

.

This land of Punjab is wrapped in furious, leaping flames;

A sea of blood gushes forth from every store;

The Ravi and Chenab writhe in pain;

A storm of sorrow sweeps away the bank of the Jutlej;

The face of Death casts its dark shadow on the Jhelum

And boats set on fire sail across the bosom of the Beas.

.

The Garden of Shah Jahan is again ravaged

And the eyes of the Red Fort shed blood;

Urdu Bazaar is desolate—forever

And Humayun’s tomb, giving refuge to millions, is empty. 

Who has dared to leave this sacred city of Delhi,

Where scared soil clings fast to feet?

.

Swords were tempered to slay Peace;

Gifts of tradition and civilization were defiled;

The old glory of India was put to shame;

The Taj fainted on the banks of the Jumna;

Darkness swept over the bright face of the sun

And the moon almost broke and fall from the sky.

.

Many minarets toppled to the ground;

Riverbanks were swept away in storms;

Lights sank into darkness

And the moon and every star were drowned in blood.

Every moment the blood storm gathered speed

As if the thirsty sword would not be quenched.

.

How could I know that we were to be disillusioned anew?

The prey is again to fall to a fiercer hunter.

This garden is again to be defiled by blood;

The flame of sorrow is again to flow.

How was I to know that freedom—a mere word—was

Just another trick in the hunter’s game?

.

How was I to know that my hopes would vanish,

That Time would bring for a cup of blood,

That no wave of light would touch the darkness of my thoughts,

That evening would approach as dawn arose?

Who knew that we would sip this poison,

That the brow of India would perspire the cold sweat of death?

.

~~~

.

Still, hope is still aflame in me;

My heart still limply glows with the luster of a dwindling flame.

.

A soft rainbow peeks faintly through the clouds,

Winds are still laden with the smell of blossoming flowers;

Wait a moment, for rosy clouds gather on the horizon.

Yet another red spring is expected in this garden.

.

From: Jāvidān̲ (Forever). Bambaʼī: Idārah-yi Adab va Zindagī. n.d. (c. 1955). pp. 43 – 53