The bulbul rejoices that winter's gone,

Gay spring has come again.

The spring breeze is all a flutter, sensing

Keen expectancy in the air.

 

Flowers have set up beauty stalls

In the gardens of love.

See what's written on flower petals,

To know what beauty means !

 

The early breeze hinted to the crow:

'Don't waste your time on words !

The meaning does not matter here;

You better learn the art !'

 

Why should men of stature shun

The company of lesser men ?

How does a flower feel at home,

Being in the midst of thorns ?

 

I tried to conceal my inner self,

But it did burst-forth

Like fragrance always issues out,

Tearing the chest of the flower.

 

Gazing hard at all the flowers,

Mistaking each for my beloved,

I found them all silent. The bulbul said,

'Why must you raise a strife ?"

 

Flowers wither in autumn,

But come again in spring.

Life always returns after death;

So leave the fear of death.

 

When summer ends, all flowers take flight

At the sight of the autumn wind;

But you must always remember

That autumn trio does not last.

 

Mahjoor, there is no Kashmiri

Who has recognised you so far.

Those who will know you, except a few,

Have not yet been born.

Poem # 42

shaad sapnum dil me boozum....

The news that he'll be our guest tonight

Fills my heart with boundless joy -

My dearest friend, with heart and eyes

Brimming over with constant love !

 

The gardener, moving round the bushes

And adorning the garden, says:

To waft the news all abroad

That the Lord of Love will come.

 

The freshness of the yemberzal,

The youth of the hyacinth,

The bulbul's enchanting melodies

Are all offerings at his feet.

 

With honest virtue standing guard,

Verdure need fear no ravage.

Those who were busy amassing wealth

Will fall like autumn leaves.

 

How enamourned of me was everyone

When I was draped in blossoms !

And, O how stones were hurled at me,

When the blossoms changed to fruit !

 

The flower, w o is the prophet of spring,

Has with him four constant friends -

Fragrance and the morning breeze,

The singing bulbul and the dew.

 

Flowers are slaves of time,

But the bulbul knows no such fetters !

Would you like to be a gul or a bulbul ? -

The choice is always yours !

 

Mahjoor, your words, the seekers feel,

Are no less than life-giving nectar.

Were you not a serving halqadar.

We'd call you a hallowed saint !