This poem was translated by Professor Carlo Coppola as part of the MULOSIGE Translations project. You can explore our collection of Urdu Poetry here.
Āhang-i nau / New Melody
Rise up, O youth of the country, if your spirit is young!
Rise up, if your eyes see this new Doomsday!
Rise up, if you have any fear of disgrace and fear of loss!
Rise up, if you care for the honor of the loved ones of the world!
Rise up! Strike the drum of heaven!
Wake up this sleeping world!
All about, plans for a night attack;
A promise of kindness, but everywhere cruelty;
Death’s command rules over Life’s assembly;
Why talk of cities when even villages are bombed!
The airplanes thundering in the sky
Are Death’s messengers riding on the shoulders of the wind!
.
There, swords in hand;
Here, plans in mind;
Cruelty heaped on cruelty, punishment on punishment;
Over each head a sword; chains on every leg.
Join together, for this is the tumult of Doomsday,
The great chaos of Life’s battlefield.
.
Our enemies approach our frontiers
Spitting showers of fire,
Drunk with blood—
If you rise up, you will halt their advance.
Set them afloat in running blood!
Throw them into the trenches they themselves have dug!
.
Because of you, colour pulses in the garden’s roses;
The shouts of the country’s drunks swell;
Intoxication swims in the eyes of the beauties;
Chastity abides in the moon-faced beloveds.
All these are threatened—don’t you realise it?
You are the trustee of honour, or nobility!
They are savage beasts, enemies of honour;
You are the repository of ancient ways, traditions;
You are the guide for the wayfarer; they, highway robbers;
You, the harvest garden; they, autumn lightning.
Beware that they do not stop foot in this sacred land!
If they do, let them not leave alive.
.
Men and women, young and old–all still victims of their tyranny;
Their swords soaked in the blood of innocents,
Ambitious, bloodthirsty,
Boundless in their sins, no count to their crimes;
They will be kind to no one!
Turn the mouths of their cannons upon them!
.
~~~
.
They are bane incarnate! Stop them!
They will destroy civilisation! Destroy them!
Burn them, incinerate them all!
You are the honour of the country! Let them know this!
Do you know who your ancestors were?
You are the sons of Khalid and Bhima!
.
You are not alone. You have supporters:
Men of Russia, warriors of China,
Even a few magic-mongering Europeans,
And many singers such as we!
Hurl this calamity from people’s head!
Quell the fire of Hell and turn it into Paradise.
.
1942
.
From: Āhang (Melody; 1938). Dihlī: Āzād Kitāb Ghar. 1956. pp. 114 – 17
Rise up, O youth of the country, if your spirit is young!
Rise up, if your eyes see this new Doomsday!
Rise up, if you have any fear of disgrace and fear of loss!
Rise up, if you care for the honor of the loved ones of the world!
Rise up! Strike the drum of heaven!
Wake up this sleeping world!
All about, plans for a night attack;
A promise of kindness, but everywhere cruelty;
Death’s command rules over Life’s assembly;
Why talk of cities when even villages are bombed!
The airplanes thundering in the sky
Are Death’s messengers riding on the shoulders of the wind!
.
There, swords in hand;
Here, plans in mind;
Cruelty heaped on cruelty, punishment on punishment;
Over each head a sword; chains on every leg.
Join together, for this is the tumult of Doomsday,
The great chaos of Life’s battlefield.
.
Our enemies approach our frontiers
Spitting showers of fire,
Drunk with blood—
If you rise up, you will halt their advance.
Set them afloat in running blood!
Throw them into the trenches they themselves have dug!
.
Because of you, colour pulses in the garden’s roses;
The shouts of the country’s drunks swell;
Intoxication swims in the eyes of the beauties;
Chastity abides in the moon-faced beloveds.
All these are threatened—don’t you realise it?
You are the trustee of honour, or nobility!
They are savage beasts, enemies of honour;
You are the repository of ancient ways, traditions;
You are the guide for the wayfarer; they, highway robbers;
You, the harvest garden; they, autumn lightning.
Beware that they do not stop foot in this sacred land!
If they do, let them not leave alive.
.
Men and women, young and old–all still victims of their tyranny;
Their swords soaked in the blood of innocents,
Ambitious, bloodthirsty,
Boundless in their sins, no count to their crimes;
They will be kind to no one!
Turn the mouths of their cannons upon them!
.
~~~
.
They are bane incarnate! Stop them!
They will destroy civilisation! Destroy them!
Burn them, incinerate them all!
You are the honour of the country! Let them know this!
Do you know who your ancestors were?
You are the sons of Khalid and Bhima!
.
You are not alone. You have supporters:
Men of Russia, warriors of China,
Even a few magic-mongering Europeans,
And many singers such as we!
Hurl this calamity from people’s head!
Quell the fire of Hell and turn it into Paradise.
.
1942
.
From: Āhang (Melody; 1938). Dihlī: Āzād Kitāb Ghar. 1956. pp. 114 – 17
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