by Sunil Sharma
to be bothered, and much too blasé.
So, I killed myself: my weapon of choice,
your cruelty. I made it all so
easy for you, and for myself, too.
My patience goes missing and leaves
me behind. It won’t look back now
out of fear or peek too far ahead.
Let me tie on the infidel sash,
abandon these idols, and give up
praying and, God forbid, religion, too.
Though he brings on the apocalypse
in my very soul, may he live until
the end of days and a little longer, too.
You always tell me, ‘My elixir
is sweet.’ If you ask Khusrau, darling,
he’ll tell you that it’s poison, too.
34 Ghazal 1400: tā dāman az basāt-i jahān dar kashīda-īm
Since we’ve pulled our skirts back
from the spread of worldly wares,
we’ve rolled up our clothes
and moved to Mendicant Alley.
Sāqī, pour out the wine
from the flask, for we have
drunk too many tears
of blood from sky-blue bottles.
Since the cup of black-and-white dice
that roll across the earth’s green baize
is loaded full of trickery,
we have quaffed dark-red wine.
Now it’s poverty and the myriad
meanings it contains like threads
that we’ve woven into a blanket
and pulled down over our head.
We’ve pulled back the skirts
of ambition from all the world
yields since it could never fill
the pockets of greed.
Smash the assayer’s touchstone
against a rock. Gold is just
yellow clay when we have
it weighed in wisdom’s scales.
Khusrau, we are not children
to seek out shiny yellows and reds.
Like adults, we’ve pulled back
our hearts from gold and pearls.
35 Ghazal 1424: bi-raft ‘umr u bi-sū-yi khudāy rūy nakardam
My life is over, and I did not turn to the Lord.
I did not seek out those moments
of rapture, and now the chance has slipped.
How can my heart wash away its filthy corruption?
Unlike my tears, my ablutions failed to flood me with regret.
My tears did not wash away my black disgrace.
My face did not shine bright in the ranks of true men.
What do I know of the path
of these lion-hearted, nocturnal wanderers
when I haven’t spent a night or two
even roaming the alleys with dogs?
Never a ball nestled in the crook
of love’s polo stick, my head
could not be struck by
the ecstasy of my Sultan’s presence.
My rheumy nose could not make out the smell of musk,
too congested to catch the perfume of creation.
They advise me to give up my bad habits, but how can
I now when I did not make a habit of it from the first?
I threw away my whole life on lies:
I never bowed down sincerely before the Lord.
Poetry became my plague.
Alas that Khusrau never said, ‘Silence,’
and I did not stop talking.
36 Ghazal 1453: hama shab az tu bi-dīvār-i khāna gham mīgūyam
All night I tell the walls of the house
my grief for you. I tell fairy tales
but speak with tears in my eyes.
Like a rosebud of blood congealed,
my jealous heart refused to tell
your story to the morning breeze.
Surely, you’ll be pleased I’m sad,
but when will I have a good chance
to tell you of my grief for you?
Happy night!
You will sleep softly, and I will tell
your tangled curls of what I need.
In the silence of my heart, I’ll say,
‘He’s mine.’ Even if it’s not so,
I’ll lie all the same.
You’ve given me advice enough.
Leave me alone. Be satisfied I speak
so seldom of my pain. Everyone
asks for the story of my weary soul:
I tell the tale of the wilted daffodil.
Don’t summon me piously to turn
to Mecca in prayer. Consider it just
that you say, ‘He is God,’
and I speak of idols.
Don’t trouble yourself
over Khusrau’s simple lament.
It’s not a song that he will sing
to any elaborate melody.
37 Ghazal 1513: vasīyat mīkunam gar bi-shnavad abrū-kamān-i man
I will draw up my will, if he’ll listen
with eyebrows arched, so after I die,
marks from his arrows will show on my bones.
He speaks in the Turkish tongue, but I
don’t know Turkish. How sweet it would be
if I had his tongue in my mouth!
I gave thanks for the lineage
of those soul-nursing, ruby lips.
If I made a mistake, pull my tongue out
from the back of my head.
If you’ll talk to me out of compassion,
speak up. I am the bewildered Farhād,
and you are my sweet-tongued Shīrīn.
My body burns with love beneath my shirt
so much that my glowing bones show through.
Fulfil the heartlorn Khusrau’s desire.
Sit here awhile, so you will feel sorry
for all my moaning and wailing.
38 Ghazal 1560: chashm-rā dar mulk-i khūbī shahna-yi bīdād kun
Make your eyes the corrupt sheriff of beauty’s realm.
Make your bloodthirsty glance the master sorcerer.
Hand over your tresses to the east wind to muss.
Make a thriving household with every strand of them.
Draw your sword of wiliness. Behead all the lovers
and then establish the path of love play anew.
You’re drunk on youthfulness and groggy with beauty.
Remember sometime those who lie awake at night.
Although I do my best to suppress my moaning,
‘Too tight, can’t catch a breath,’ my chest warns me,
‘Cry out.’
I chained my heart to your locks. If it’s not fit
for slavery, free it. Shake out the dust on your head.
My longing for your face destroyed me. For God’s sake,
reveal your face and make happy a weary heart.
Order my persecution or give me justice.
I am not one of those who will turn against you.
I heard a new coin was struck in beauty’s realm.
East Wind! First pay homage, then offer it blessings.
My breast is the mountain at hand. I excavate
it with my fingernails. My name was once Khusrau.
After this, make it Farhād.
39 Ghazal 1583: ay dil ‘alam bi-mulk-i qanā‘at buland kun
Heart, raise your flag
in the land of contentedness.
At the table of the contemptible, keep the eyes
of appetite unscarred. Your being is dust,
and you want it to turn to gold:
utilize the alchemy of its nothingness.
In the privacy of satisfaction, take the day
as it comes from God.
Chain Satan in fetters of religious law.
If one day you find someone fired by hardship,
make your soul rue seed on his inner flame.
Howl like a trapped beast
at one who has no discipline.
Laugh with contempt<
br />
at one who has no good works.
Go through the street of reason
to the door of the Sultan of Love.
Then throw this crown from your head
as a shoe for his horse.
How long a crow atop the trash heap?
Be a regal osprey awhile.
Ennoble yourself by not showing yourself.
First drag your soul along the footsteps
of the night wanderers of love.
Then lasso your aspiration
over the fortress tower of heaven.
If the enemy kicks you because
you aim low, become the dust on his path
so you aim higher.
If they pelt you with stones, pray for them twice.
If they lord it over you, double your humility.
This threshold is some person’s kingdom,
but it belongs to another. Go, Khusrau,
be pleased with no one person.
40 Ghazal 1675: khūn giryam archi az sitam-i bīkarān-i tu
Though I weep blood
over your boundless cruelty,
with my eyelashes I still sweep
the dust from your doorstep.
You have broken many hearts of glass,
a crime that has turned
your unkind heart to stone.
No fulfilment with you,
no delight for me.
Soul bereft
I don’t belong to you or to myself.
All night till dawn,
your brutality
roamed through my heart.
‘Ah, now you are in my heart,’
I thought.
‘In your soul,’
was the reply.
Don’t frown. In those creases
on your brow, I see foreshadowed the bow
that will destroy a world.
Who will rescue me
from your tightly pursed mouth,
when my purse is shrunk
tighter than your lips?
You said, ‘Khusrau is mine.’
What good fortune this is—
I mean, just for my name
to have crossed your lips.
41 Ghazal 1758: ay firāq-i tu yār-i dīrīna
Your absence: my old friend
Sorrow for you: my old consolation
Pain you caused: my everyday guest
Scars you left: my old souvenirs
The thorns, the old thorns
keep piercing my heart
and I drown in blood.
Everyone has wine and friends,
but I am still benumbed
by an old besottedness.
I’ll never tell in public
the hardship
of my old expectations.
I will turn to earth, alas,
with my old dusty heart.
East wind, remind him
now and then
of his old lover.
Now and then
won’t you saunter past
your old friend’s grave?
Let my soul
be relieved a while
of its old cares and concerns.
Ah, if you would come back
and take from Khusrau’s heart
its old complacency.
42 Ghazal 1772: shahrī-st ma‘mūr u dar u az har tarafmah-pāra-ī
There is a prosperous and populous city
where fragments of moon gleam at every turn.
Each fragment holds a shard of my shattered heart.
Examine everyone’s appearance closely.
Among these shapes, there is a bloodthirsty
archer, aiming to slay me with his bolts.
Anyone wishing to vie with him in beauty
and allure must have cheeks of rose petals
and a cypress’s lithe grace. Others worship
the pale moon of his face as if it were
the sun, but no such celestial orb
rises to rule my fateful horoscope.
Love for you has tunnelled its way deep
into the cavity of my chest where
my wounded heart sleeps like an infant
in the cradle.
When he promises union,
he covers his face and hides himself away.
What can Khusrau do but give his soul
to whoever happens to be looking on?
43 Ghazal 1797: mast āmada-ī bāz bi-mihmān-i ki būdī
You’ve come back drunk.
Whose guest were you?
I know you’re sugar. Whose cane field were you in?
My absent friend,
whose sad heart did you seek out?
My lost Joseph, whose prison were you in?
My madman,
past whose street did you walk?
Whose fluster did you pique?
Where did you drink wine last night?
Whom did you give the goblet to?
Whose fountain of youth were you
in the darkness of the night?
Primped and drunk,
in whose arms did you sleep?
Who was so lucky?
Whose orders did you obey?
Who picked through your curls?
Who bit your lips?
Who did you sit with at night?
Whose guest were you?
(O heart,
the sweets are all plundered.
What have you done?
At whose table were you the fly?)
In whose moaning body were you another soul?
On whose searing soul did you pour the salt?
You don’t have the scent of roses, Khusrau,
or the colour of spring.
In whose garden did you go to stroll?
44 Ghazal 1815: bar lab asar-i sharāb dārī
On your lips you have traces of wine,
in your glance, a fancy for sleep.
At night you sleep, and I cry for help.
Don’t you know how you sleep?
The down on your cheeks shows
its pure musk before it breaks the skin.
Caught in that dark growth
you keep below the surface,
Khizr will drown
in the water of life,
and though you keep it in a sunny place,
your soft down
retains its fresh moistness.
You bring the lips,
and I’ll bring the heart:
now you have both wine and kebab.
Make merry!
Spill my blood,
and if anyone asks,
you have dozens of answers
on each eyelash.
‘I’ll sacrifice you with a glance,’
you said. If you’re in a hurry,
bismillah and get on with it.
No point to useless torment,
if your slave Khusrau is to be killed.
45 Ghazal 1825: ay chihra-yi zībā-yi tu rashk-i butān-i Azarī
How lovely your face,
the envy of ancient idols.
Describe you as I might,
your beauty is lovelier yet.
Never is an image seen
finer than your visage.
Are you the sun?
The moon? I do not know.
A fairy? An angel?
I do not know.
I’ve wandered the horizons,
worshipped before icons.
Many a beauty have I seen,
but you are something different.
Your body is a cypress
in motion, peace
and comfort for my soul.
As you leave, don’t trail
your skirts and drag
this comfort in your wake.
You set out for the meadow
thinking to take in the view
and carry off my heart and soul
following the lover’s rule.
The whole world is your plunder,
peop
le gaze at you in wonder.
Your eyes, enchanting narcissi,
practise the ways of blasphemy.
Khusrau is a beggar, a stranger,
a wanderer in your city.
For God’s sake, take pity
and look on us in exile.
46 Ghazal 1836: sabza nau-khīz ast u bārān dur-fishān āyad hamī
Green is newly sprouted
and rain comes scattering pearls
and the heart comes
to incline to fields
and flowing waters.
The clouds raining jewels:
you’d fancy they come
from the seashore,
caravans loaded with pearls.
It’s a place for the heart
to blossom like the rose
with joy, for today
the scent of that youth
comes on the east breeze.
Elegantly
tossing his curls in every direction
he walks by, and
a million hearts come
trailing in his wake.
If my soul survives
forever
it’s no surprise
for the water of life comes
flowing down soul-streams
from your lips.
I don’t know how sleep
comes to your eyes
when such cries for help
come from your street all night.
May the rose bower
of your beauty grow fresher
each moment, for why else does
Khusrau begin
early each morning
to sing and lament
like the nightingale?
47 Ghazal 1850: bakhtam az khvāb dar āmad chu tu bā man khuftī
My fortunes woke when you slept with me.
You did not sleep in my embrace
but in my shining eyes. Restlessly
you flit about, yet in the sleepless eyes