let your taverns for once be real.
Soon will the supremacy of goods and chattel be over
as also the heavy burden of cares,
even if the chains keep on clanking forever.
My Friend, My Mate
If only I could be certain, my friend,
if only I could be sure that your heart’s fatigue,
your eyes’ despondency, your heartburn
will be healed by my consoling and my love,
if my word of cheer were the cure
to enliven your dull and desolate mind,
wash off the stains of humiliation
and heal your sick youth.
If only I could be certain, my friend,
I’d console you day and night, evening and morning,
humming to you songs, tender and sweet—
songs of waterfalls, of springs, of gardens,
of dawn’s arrow, of the moon and the planets.
I’d tell you tales of beauty and love—of
the snow-cold bodies of proud and beautiful women
who melt in the heat of a passionate embrace—
how the still, familiar lines of a face
will change suddenly, unnoticed;
how the crystal of the beloved’s cheeks
takes on the glow of red wine;
how the rose-stem offers itself to the
flower-gatherer,
and how the hallway of night
is filled with fragrance.
So would I keep on singing, sitting beside you,
weaving songs,
all for your sake.
But my songs are no cure for your pain—
a song is no surgeon even though it may be a
consoler;
music is no surgeon’s knife even if it soothes
as a balm.
Your ailment has no cure save the lancet,
and this cruel cure is beyond me—
beyond anything that breathes on earth.
Yes, it rests with you,
only you!
The Morning of Freedom
August 1947
This daybreak, pockmarked—
this morning, night-bitten.
Surely, this is not the morning we’d longed for,
in whose eager quest, all comrades
had set out, hoping that somewhere
in the wilderness of the sky
would emerge the ultimate destination of stars;
somewhere, the wave of the slow night will meet
the shore
and somewhere will anchor the boat of
heart’s grief.
As we friends set out on those mysterious highways
of young blood, how many hands caught us by
the sleeve?
From the dreamlands of beauty’s pleasure-houses
kept beckoning to us, impatiently, seductive arms;
bodies called out to us.
But we yearned only for the morning’s face,
even though within easy reach was the hem of
radiant beauties.
Delicate was our longing, and faint our sense of
exhaustion.
We hear now that light and darkness have parted—
also, that there’s now a union of quest and goal,
that the lot of the afflicted is now changed,
that the pleasure of union is granted
and banished is the torment of separation.
Fire in the bosom, longing in the eyes, and
heartburn—
nothing can soothe the anguish of separation.
Where did the sweet breeze come from, and where did
it vanish—
the street lamp has no news yet.
Even the night’s heaviness is just the same;
the moment of salvation has not yet arrived
for the heart and the eye.
So let’s press on, as the destination is still far away.
Pen and Paper
Forever will I nurture pen and paper,
forever express in words whatever my heart undergoes,
forever proffer ingredients of the sorrows of love
and quicken into life the wasteland of time.
Yes, the bitterness of time will keep on spawning,
just as the tyrants will persist in their cruelty.
Cheerfully, I’ll give into bitterness, this tyranny too
so long as there’s breath, I’ll seek ever new cures
for torments.
If the tavern still remains, I shall embellish every door
and balcony of the haram with the redness of wine.
If the heart is not drained of all blood, I’ll colour
every tear
with the redness of the beloved’s lips and cheeks.
This posture of indifference, let it be her prerogative—
for me it will always be my desire’s entreaty.
Neither Have You Come
Neither have you come, nor has ended the long
night of wait.
Even the breeze has whisked about, time and again,
seeking you.
Whatever time’s spent in frenzy is well spent,
even if the heart has taken on a thousand
mishaps.
The night spent in confabulation with the adviser
was surely the one spent also down the beloved’s lane.
what was never intended in the tale
is primarily that which has piqued her most.
No flowers blooming, no rendezvous, no wine—
how strangely has spring passed away this time.
Nobody knows what befell the garden, in
the wake
of the flower-gatherer’s pillage—
so restlessly has the breeze flit past the
nest today.
When the Scars of Memory Begin to Heal
When the scars of memory begin to heal,
I think of you on one pretext or the other.
As the word of my beloved blossoms
every woman begins to groom her hair.
Every stranger appears to be a confidant,
even now when I pass through your lane.
Whenever the exiles talk to the breeze of their
homeland,
tears well up in the morning’s eyes.
Whenever our lips are sewn up
still more the air resounds with songs.
As darkness seals the prison door,
stars illumine the heart, O Faiz.
The Evening Star Has Burnt Out
The evening star has burnt out in dusk’s ashes—
in the air wave the locks of the parting night.
Let someone proclaim life is running itself out,
the sky has held up the caravan of morning and
evening.
This is their obduracy, these enemies of wine
and cup—
let there be no moon by night, no cloud by day.
The breeze has knocked at the prison door again:
dawn is about to break, tell the heart not to feel
so restive.
Two Loves
I
Still green are the memories, O beautiful cup-bearer—
those days glowing with reflections from that face,
the moment of meeting, like a bud opening out,
that instant of hope, like a heart-throb.
Lo, the heartache is now recompensed,
ending at last the night’s yearning.
Lo, the dreamless stars of pain are gone,
now the eager eyes’ fortune will be rekindled.
From the terrace will emerge your beauty’s sun,
from that niche shoot out the ray of henna’s tint;
from this doorstep will flow your footstep’s quicksilver,
and on that pathway glow your tunic’s twilight.
Again have I also seen those sc
orching days of parting
when lament had forgotten itself, brooding over love
and life.
Each night so much burden wearing down my heart,
each morning’s glow, piercing the heart like an arrow.
How often have I remembered you in my loneliness,
how many shelters has my aggrieved heart not sought?
Sometimes I have let the breeze’s palm caress my eyes
and sometimes put my arms around the moon’s nape.
II
Just so, have I craved for my Laila, my land,
my heart fluttered with the same longing;
just so has passion sought fulfilment—
sometimes in the cheek’s curve, at times in the
lock’s curl.
And so have the heart and the eye called out to
the other beloved,
sometimes through laughter, at times through tears—
and fulfilled all demands of desire;
kindled every pain and cared for every sorrow.
Never turned down any of frenzy’s commands,
never renounced all worldly compromises—
life’s security, body’s comfort, hem’s safety.
Much has the priest roared from the pulpit,
and much has the ruler thundered in the open court.
Never did my enemies share the barb of abuse
nor did my friends forsake their style of censure.
I have no regrets over this love or that—
my heart carries all the stains—
except remorse.
Dedicated to Your Alleyways
I’m dedicated to your alleyways, O my motherland,
where it’s customary now that nobody may walk
about, head held high.
If anyone dare step out, he must do so in furtive fear
of body and soul.
All your devotees must now withstand a new law,
a new order—
‘Stones and bricks enchained, but dogs out at large.’
There’s enough to provoke tyranny’s hand, seeking
pretexts—
those few ardent devotees who still cherish your name.
These power-mongers are now both judges and
petitioners—
who then will defend us, and where shall we seek
justice?
But there are some who must perforce spend their days
banished from you, this is how their mornings and
evenings grind on.
As the cell’s slit grows dim
my heart imagines your hair studded with stars,
and as the fetters become visible,
dawn, I imagine, must have lit up your face.
So I live on these fantasies, held by the shadows
of doors and walls, mornings and evenings.
The same age-old war between tyrants and mankind—
never have their ways changed, nor ours.
Always, we have let flowers bloom in fire.
It’s always been the same—their defeat, our triumph.
That’s why we’ve no grievance against our destiny,
no gloom over our separation from you.
If today we part, tomorrow’s for reunion—
this brief spell of a night’s separation is no matter.
If the rival’s star towers high today,
this transient supremacy is of no consequence.
Only those committed to you deeply
hold the answer to the whirligig of time.
In My Heart Now Well Up
In my heart now well up your long-forgotten sorrows
as though some forsaken idol returns to the kaaba.
One by one the stars are coming alive—
your footfalls are drawing close to my destination.
Pep up the tempo of the wine-dance, let the music
swell to its crescendo—
to the tavern come the emissaries of the haram.
It is I alone who would not seek favours,
although she is even willing to oblige.
Tell the night of separation to hold itself awhile,
for the heart now aches less and remembrance too
is faint.
It’s the Same Word of Passion
It’s the same word of passion on everybody’s lips;
how can a word be muzzled once it gets moving
around?
Till today, whatever was held taboo in the priest’s
esteem,
the same has now become the unbeliever’s credo, the
soul’s repose.
It’s strongly rumoured that the adviser is dodging
everyone,
for today he’s engaged to hold a talk down the
beloved’s lane.
There’s the same Laila’s cheek, the same mouth of
Shirin,
on whomsoever has the fond eye settled for a moment.
The night of union—how fast it sped past;
and the night of separation, how very burdensome it is.
Once diffused, how can the wave of fragrance be
recaptured;
once out of the heart, when has lament stayed on
the lips?
Helpless is the bird-killer’s hand, so also the flower-
gatherer’s—
nothing has stayed on, not the scent of a rose, nor
the nightingale’s song.
In its smooth coming, spring must have paused for
a moment,
and in its going, stalled autumn momentarily.
The style of lament I innovated in captivity—
that mode, O Faiz, has caught on everywhere in the
garden.
Let There Be Some Clouds
Let there be some clouds, some wine
and then if retribution follows, who cares?
Let the moon descend to the terrace
and in the cup-bearer’s palm appear the sun.
Let candles light up in every blood-vein
as she appears, her face unveiled.
On every page of the book of life, my heart saw
a sequence of the cantos of your kindness and loyalty.
Counting today the sorrows of this world—
endlessly I remembered you.
Never could I challenge your love’s daily supremacy
even though revolt has been my heart’s daily wont.
Up in flames went my rival’s concourse—roof and
doors,
each time my destitute self showed up there.
Such was the resonance of my silence,
it seemed answers echoed from all directions.
Fully triumphant was my life’s journey, O Faiz,
success greeted me wherever I went.
Prison: One Evening
From the sinuous pathways of evening stars,
the night climbs down, step by step.
From close-by, the breeze streams past
as though someone has dropped a word of love.
In the prison courtyard, the trees—exiled,
heads drooping, absorbed in embroidering the
sky’s hem.
On the terrace’s shoulder, blazes
benign moonlight’s beautiful hand.
In the dust is dissolved the stars’ lustre
and the sky’s turquoise is suffused with light.
In the green niches sway blue reflections
as if the heart is swayed by the parting ache.
Ceaselessly wells up in my heart the thought—
how very sweet this instant is.
Those busy concocting poison
will succeed
neither today nor tomorrow.
What if you have put out the candles
in our luminous chamber of love—
snuff out the moon
and I’ll concede defeat.
Remembrance
In the wilderness of
my heart, O love,
waver
the shadows of your voice
the mirages of your lips.
In the desert of loneliness—
there, under the remote dust and straw of separation—
are unfolding the jasmines and roses of your lap.
There rises, from closeby, the flame of your breath
glowing softly in its own heady fragrance.
And there, beyond the horizon, falls
drop by drop, the effulgent dew
of your alluring glance.
O my love, with such tenderness
has your memory’s hand caressed the cheeks
of my heart that it appears, as if,
although it is still the dawn of separation,
the day of parting has faded away
and the night of love’s union has just arrived.
Ask Me Not About the Evening of Parting
Ask me not about the evening of parting—it came and
passed—
it was the heart that again felt consoled
and it was life that regained its poise.
In my fancy was kindled your beauty’s fame—
gone was the moon of pain, gone the night of
separation.
Whenever I remembered you, the morning came alive,
fragrant
and whenever I revived your sorrow, the night went
restive.
With my heart I’d already settled what to say—
but when it came to saying it there, the words veered
and hedged.
Faiz, my fellow travellers of the night’s last hours,
what happened to them?
where did the breeze part company and where did the
morning vanish?
Rendezvous
This night is that pain’s tree
which towers higher than you or me—
higher it is, for in its boughs are lost