The nation descended of Rome
old in its worship of the past
Taking pleasure in renewal
it, too, is young once more
In the Mussalman’s soul
there is today the same ferment
This is God’s secret
not for the tongue to utter it
Let us see, from this ocean’s
depth, what wonder springs
What colors
the blue dome takes
VIII
In the mountain’s valley
clouds are sunk in evening light
Heaps of Badakhshan jewels
the sun has left behind
Simple and passionate
is the peasant girl’s song
For the heart’s boat
the time of youth is turbulent
O moving waters of Guadalquivir
someone by your shore
Sees today
a dream of another age
The new world is as yet
behind the veil of destiny
In my eyes, however
its dawn has been unveiled
If I lift the curtain
from the face of my reflections
Europe will not withstand
the radiance of their splendor
Where there is no revolution
that life is death
The spirit of a nation
the striving for revolution
Like a sword in the hand of fate
is the nation that
In every age maintains
a reckoning of its deeds
All pictures are incomplete
without the heart’s blood
Song is puerile frenzy
without the heart’s blood
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
JOSH MALIHABADI
Address
I
With what face, traders, do you propose
to uphold human goodness in the world today?
“The one they call Hitler is a wolf, a wolf!
Shoot down the wolf, for peace, for survival.
An autumn gale threatens the world’s garden,
humanity is reduced to sobs and sighs.
Hitler’s hand commands the steed of arrogance—
Quell Germany’s fire with the shower of swords.”
II
I am surprised. Such conversation—in your councils?
Now you fret over the fate of the species?
When you first arrived to trade in this land,
were you not already familiar with such a notion?
Was the spirit of freedom lacking in the people of Hind?
Be honest! Were they not a society of human beings?
III
Don’t you remember the chronicle of your own misdeeds?
Recall the Company’s rule of lawlessness?
When you ranged across the country plundering caravan
after caravan, reduced the flower of Hind’s pride to vagrants in their own land?
When you went around splitting the thumbs of weavers and craftsmen,
and filled up the moats with cold, dead bodies?
A deathlike pall spread over Hindustan’s industry,
a calamity worked by your hands.
IV
But, by God, how you hanker after justice today!
By Mir Jafar’s head—was Siraj an enemy of truth?
Have you forgotten your assault on the begums of Avadh,
and the days of the Rani of Jhansi’s resistance?
Do you recall the scene of Bahadur Shah’s exile,
and lion-hearted Tipu’s calamitous tale?
To succor him when he sagged under three days of starvation,
whose heads did you present to the Emperor Zafar?
You will remember too the history of Mitya Burj,
from whose earth black fumes arise to this day?
You must often have visited Qaisar Bagh as well,
where the cry of “Ah, Akhtar!” can be heard still.
Say, truly, do you have no memory of that outrageous injustice,
whose witness to this day is a grave in Rangoon?
More recent injury to Hindis must be fresh in your mind too—
I am sure you remember the Jallianwala Bagh massacre too?
Go, ask him why his name is so illustrious.
That wolf-faced Dyer is living still!
And Bhagat Singh, for whom even today the heart mourns—
do you remember the noose that you placed round his neck?
In what conditions were Hind’s guides and guardians forced to dwell?
Put this question to prison doors and walls,
where imperial arrogance is still preserved,
where the sound of the whip’s lash echoes still.
V
Why do you now sail your ship on the passions of the masses?
I am much surprised you preach lessons today of fairness.
The powerful are never caught in the trap of equity,
they never show much concern for the rights of humanity.
VI
But today you advise about morals and courtesy:
I suspect you don’t feel as mighty as once you did.
Those who uphold what is right are civilized, the mischief-makers, savage—
these are really the principles of weak nations.
Is it perhaps that today you no longer command centers of power—
for why not still claim that he who wields the stick takes the buffalo?
What did you say—that mankind’s first duty is justice?
Have you no longer the strength to murder and persecute?
VII
You linger too long beneath the date palm of integrity.
God forbid! I hope you haven’t sprained an ankle!
The sound of hooves is heard in neither city nor wilderness.
Is all well, or is the stallion of war in the infirmary?
Today, every eye is suffused with compassion.
Are you (may this be your enemy’s fate!) suffering some illness?
Just a little winded, and you are in love with justice—
and want fresh air for the entire human race?
Forgetting how you persecuted, you now sing of fairness.
Is there a fire in your home that you raise this alarm?
It doesn’t behoove a felon to make such a din—
Yazid and Shimr until yesterday, today you pretend to be Husain!
Your safety, bargain hunters, now lies only in this:
bend your neck low before time’s decree.
Now time will write a story with a new theme,
and its title requires the ink of your blood.
The decree of time cannot be deflected.
Death can be averted, but not time’s decree.
Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja
Program
O stranger, if you wish to seek Josh,
he will be in the circle of the wise before dawn.
In the morning this lover of nature’s sights
will be near a garden or a patch of wilderness,
and during the day, in search of secrets and precise sense,
in the city of artists and the writers’ retreat.
In the evening this man of God, reprobate of the tavern,
can be found in the vintner’s hallowed house of blessings.
At night, a friend of flowing curls and fair faces,
find him rapt with song and dance or in his beloved’s street.
And if there is news of oppression somewhere, this poor fellow
like a corpse will be prone in the house of grief.
Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja
HAFEEZ JALANDHARI
Staff of Old Age
Fled, that time of self-indulgence,
the world of noise and uproar, wrecked.
Autumn has despoiled
the playful wantonness, the air’s ecstasy.
The caravan of life has passed
beyond youth’s valley of joy.
Annihilation’s pathway of terrors beckons,
towering cliffs on one side, chasms on the other.
Fled, that time of self-indulgence.
The journey, and night’s darkness,
with no sense of dawning day—
to stop and start again, it cannot be.
Life’s effects packed and ready to go,
no provisions for the journey among them,
and a brigand awaits to seize the breath.
The self-serving my only companions,
no one devoted to you or me.
The journey, and night’s darkness.
A thousand obstacles at every step,
neither love’s company nor reason’s counsel.
It is hard to keep a steady step,
for the feet find no footing on the ground.
A slight slip,
and the skull will shatter.
Such are the perils of the road—
and then this keen and cutting wind.
A thousand obstacles at every step.
Bereft of understanding,
the senses, too, have dulled,
but travelers keep going,
for now there is no escape.
On the forehead of hope’s firmament
just one star, alone, shines—
that my young one accompanies me,
the staff of my old age.
This, the only star that shines.
Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja
What Am I?
These great thoughts!
What am I?
In the river’s midst,
an orphan.
A lonesome anguish,
a hot teardrop,
a cold sigh.
In the deep and turbulent sea of human blood,
in catastrophes, in earthquakes,
in lightning and in thunder,
a voice without a voice.
No one listens.
O God, my benevolent sustainer!
what is this hope and fear?
These great thoughts!
What am I?
Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja
Yearning for Free Time
This is how time passes,
yearning for leisure,
like some leaf
floating downriver
drifting to the edge
wishing to linger
and ramble through
the reflection of trees
that adorns
the river’s surface;
or a waft of memory
accustomed to the flow
desires to rest
in a garden nook
and fill its lap
with the fragrance of a flower
that is yet to bloom.
Yearning for leisure,
this is how time passes.
Worries about a livelihood
leave no spare time whatever.
I wish with all my heart
to acquire a skill,
to fill the arms of art
with the roses of my themes.
But my luck is out—
I simply don’t have time.
Where would I find the leisure?
Time is the problem.
Then it strikes me, perhaps luxury is not out of reach.
I should think of doing something
that would bring in a lot of money.
But, then again, I reason,
this business of thinking
can be conducted only if I have the time.
They just don’t leave me any free time,
worries of subsistence!
Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja
SAMANDAR KHAN SAMANDAR
Come to Salvation
Rise, O selfish Pukhtuns!
if you wish to be rid of troubles.
Lift your heads to know life!
Life lies in action and movement.
Rise with dagger, spear, and flag—
rise as thunder, squall, and soothing breeze!
Hold back your pride and power,
tend the painful heart of the world.
Rouse the sleeping ones with the cry of Takbir.
The awakened drift back to sleep—rouse them again!
Don’t you see that people have gone astray?
That human values, at every moment, are in decline?
The community of Abraham discordant and divided—
unthinkable once, this has become reality today.
Follow the right path, day and night—
be the caravan’s guide, its eyes and feet.
Listen! Right is right, but might is right as well.
This is the lesson time has taught me.
O Pukhtuns, listen to me, and reflect!
O brave ones, listen to me, and reflect!
That I weep and wail day and night—
understand what I want, what I say!
I am not in need of food, I am not poor.
I pray for your peace, for your prosperity.
I want the Pukhtun forever on the move,
the Qur’an in one hand, the sword in the other.
Who is proud to be part of the best of nations?
To crush those who lay waste the beautiful garden?
Who walks through the perils of fire?
Who offers life for truth and justice?
I want the Pukhtun to be vital and alive,
his inner being resting in his heart like a pearl.
A Pukhtun’s tribe and lineage are of no concern to me—
I want to see the Pukhtun united as a nation.
I see the nation and community in disarray,
but I want the true Pukhtun, the bold and honored Pukhtun.
What comparison between one who fights for gold and land
and Bilal, who fought for honor, obedient to God?
O Pukhtun! That is how I want to see you.
Even such a Majnun as he was, my dear,
who sacrificed his life and wealth for love,
for such is the promise of Paradise from God.
The promise of God is firm, but based on just deserts—
be like Salman, Abuzar, or Bilal!
Your destination is far, your journey long:
it means submission, compliance, guidance, and nurturing.
Sacrificing life and wealth is the mark of generosity—
the holy warrior and the martyr gain in either case.
He is not a Pukhtun who kills his cousin.
The good Pukhtun earns the mercy of divine light in a just war.
It is dogs who fight for meat and selfish gain:
the true fight is fought in the way of God.
The true fight is fought for a just cause,
true honor shown in striving for the Lord.
Pukhtuns are never the aggressors but stout in defense,
never pursue land or wealth that is not theirs.
Combine faith and Pukhto, and you are a true Pukhtun.
Otherwise, a blot of shame on life.
If you sweat and shed blood for Pukhto,
the Pukhto of God will be revealed to you.
God is Pukhtun and favors the Pukhtun.
He defends the Pukhtun and contends on his behalf.
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi and Pervez Sheikh
Ghazal: Is It a Glittering Gem That Hangs from Your Ear, Love?
Is it a glittering gem that hangs from your ear, love?
Or morning dew on a flower-leaf quivering?
You call me mad, but it’s you who are deluded.
Simpleton! Madness is the lover’s virtue.
I assemble my shattered heart, but it falls again to pieces.
How strangely the memory of your flowing hair affec
ts me!
Nine and twenty times I have struck my head along the way.
And every time I thought it was your door.
It’s all within me, this contest of joy and grief.
Else the world is neither Paradise nor Hell.
On a worthless head the turban is like a mushroom in the desert.
Not every turban is a turban, nor every head worthy of it.
The bright-faced came to bid me farewell!
O Samandar, you should be happy to embark on your journey.
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi and Pervez Sheikh
Ghazal: None Has Such Bewitching Eyes
None has such bewitching eyes,
eyes lively, yet bashful.
I would offer my head for those eyes
that sparkle every morning in the sky.
Fools call them heavy with sleep,
but these are eyes that revive the dying.
A hundred hearts they peg with their lances.
Take care! These black eyes are full of mischief.
Come soothe and dress the wounds of my eyes—
I have waited for you a long time.
The home of my heart lies in ruins.
Modern Poetry of Pakistan Page 5