Poem # 31
vesi vanta darda baagas
aamut bahar aasya.....
springtime come to the garden of love,
And is my sweetheart out enjoying love's bloom ?
The breeze will wake up, at break of dawn,
The sleeping flowers in all beds.
But I wonder if the bulbul would be awake !
Amazed at his tireless mission to stain her name
From pole to pole, the dew-drenched masval asks the breeze
'Could a soul like his have ever known rest ?'
I am unburdening my heart to the rose,
For I may never get a chance to speak
To my love when I meet him face to face.
How cruelly he forsook me after clipping off my wings !
Has ever a bird been left crippled and wounded thus ?
A new amorous passion fills his heart,
Or malicious whispers flood his mind.
Else, why without cause his stony stare ?
I said: 'Stay a moment; hear me with patience !'
He said: How long am I to listen to your endless plaints ?
The blackbird said to the crow: 'How senseless
This cawing ! When you see that he is drunk,
How can his heart be awake ?'
Mahjoor, both aul and bulbul are all ears to what you say.
I hope the discerning understand what that implies !
Poem # 32
vuchh me kun vaara lagay......
heart is consumed with longing,
Waiting for you, wasting away !
My life lies offered at your feet.
O bless it with your look of grace !
All flowers of the field, one after another -
Yemberzal, hyacinth, rose and masval --
Lay down their lives in adoration.
Each one enters the garden fully equipped
With his peculiar essence - the gul with fire,
The bulbul with the music of the heart.
Some souls in the garden are awake, while some
Are inebriated by delusions and passions -
The fountain heads of all strife !
Some have narrow horizons, some are wearing
Various fetters of the mind - and all lie trapped
In the snares spread by the superb hunter.
That the beloved will soon arrive
Fills the bulbul with delight, and all flowers
Have donned the flowing robes of spring.
From the gardener's eyes the same love flows
To all flowers It's only the florist
Who picks and chooses flowers.
We now have flowers made of paper.
They have become a rage ! And this new passion
Fills all the bulbuls with gratitude!
It's a tale of love, Mahjoor ! Make your language sweet
Appeals and laments can't vibrate with life
Without the leaven of love !