( 1 )

.

Ah, rose-faced saqi, still fresh in my memory are

Those days which came into bloom from the reflection of the beloved’s face,

That moment seeing it was slowly blooming like flowers,

That moment of hope was throbbing like a heart,

.

A hope that, at last, the destiny of the sorrow of our heart awakes,

That, at last, the thirsting light of desire has finally ended,

That, at last, the sleepless stars of pain have faded,

The destiny of impatient glances will now glimmer,

.

The sun of your beauty will come out of this upper story,

Your hands, henna-coloured rays, will shoot forth from this arbour,

The mercury of your gait will flow from this archway,

The radiant sunset-colour of your garment will blossom forth on this path

But then, we have also seen those days of separation throbbing with heat,

When the lament was lost in the worry about the heart and life.

Every night was such a dark burden that the heart has been bent down; 

The flame of every dawn, like an arrow, has pierced the chest.

In what ways have we thought of you in our solitude!

How many shelters have our crying heart sought!

Sometimes, we have pressed the hand of the breeze to our eyes;

Sometimes [for solace] we put our arm around the neck of the moon.

.

( 2 ) 

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We have loved the Laila of our country in this very same way.

The heart has tossed about in its affection in this very way?

Desire has sought the comfort of the destination in the same way,

In the curve of the cheek, in the curl of the rose.

.

The heart and eyes in the same way

Have called out smilingly to the Life of the World [the beloved] sometimes weeping.

The heart and eyes have fulfilled the demands of all words of desire,

Have lightened every age and decorated every sorrow,

.

~~~

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Have not turned down any order of madness;

The sound of the caravan bell has never returned alone.

We have forgotten all the excuses of the people of lust:

Protection of their life, comfort of the body, purity of the ‘finer things.’

.

What has happened on the road has happened here too:

Sometimes alone in prison, sometimes disgraces in the middle of the bazaar;

Many shaikhs have thundered loudly in the corner in their pulpits, 

People of power have lashed out right in their courts,

.

Strangers have not left unused any arrows of calumny,

Every manner of blame was heaped upon our own people, 

But the heart is not ashamed of that First Love, nor this one. 

Every mark—except that of shame—is in this heart.

.

From: Dast-i ṣabā (Hand of the Wind). Dihlī: Senṭral Buk Ḍipo, 1952. pp. 47 – 50