And the bulbuls will be mad with joy
If he favours me with a visit,
I'll pray he softens his ire,
Beg for his forgiveness and the boon
Of his kindness and love.
I dare not meet him on the road,
When I see him from afar.
Won't he halt his step to help me?
Gaze at him by stealth?
If he comes, I'd beg he stay,
And pour out all my woes.
Won't he listen and understand,
And put a balm on my wounded heart?
When he wakes up from slumber,
Opening his lovely eyes,
The world of men will wake up too,
And also jealous strife.
Won't he offer me a drink?
From those brimful goblets on display?
For love's laws lay down a tithe
On beauty's wealth for lovers!
If he just looks at the garden,
wouldn't the flowers tear their robes?
And lie down in eternal sleep?
If leaving all bygones and anger,
He comes to visit me,
I shall recount most faithfully
All the suffering I have borne.
Jewels dance round his face,
Like the stars round the moon.
O, how the pearls adorn his ears!
Why doesn't he make them swing?
I filled all beds with flowers,
Adorned them with loving hands,
Hoping that masval and jessamine
May wean him from his frivolous ways.
Mahjoor will soon send him a letter,
Written in his own blood.
He might then listen, see the pain,
And be fair in love's domain!
Poem # 18
ranga ranga pholimuti vaari gul....
garden is ablaze with diverse hues.
O bulbul, behold these flowers
In the assembled gorgeous court!
Yemberzal, rose, pomegranate blossom
And hyacinth - each magnificent!
What a lovely roll of colours!
The sensual lover dotes on colour -
The evanescent beauty of spring.
His friendship dies when the bloom is gone.
Beauty's everlasting, the bulbuls say,
For splendid flowers of diverse hues
Are always seen in bloom.
Come to the garden early, and mark
Who helps keep flowers in trim,
And makes them - bloom ere break of dawn,
What keen expectancy fills the air?
The well-groomed beds and the flowers
That strain their eyes on the bush!
A drink of morning dew relieves
The heart that's bowed with grief -
It's only the garden where the sick get healed.
The morning breeze wafts abroad
Praise of the beauty self flowers,
Which fills all lovers with longing.
One with music in his soul
Alone can diagnose pain,
And grade flowers in this saffron field.
Mabjoor, your poems and speech must show you
Not as a florist, but as a flower.
Then only can you claim flowers?