Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Nasir Kazmi: Deewan: Ghazal No. 3: p. 14
The Gardener cannot rob me of my assets of composition;
Though he may deprive me of my corner in his garden.
If devotion to fidelity is venerable, my God,
Relieve me of respect for the traditions of the Past.
The scenes in the eyes and in the heart make me sad.
Release me from my body’s barren landscape.
My lamentation sheds flowers from every branch.
The flower-gatherer waits to snatch the art from me!
I’ve nourished these flower-beds with the very blood of my heart.
Who dares take away from me my garden!
© Sadat Jabeen
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Ornament to my thought… Unraveling to my heart…
I have lost that pain to which my soul aspires.
Day to day, I face the same grief and the same hope.
I wish to disengage from this wasteful sorrow.
How can I hold my life in a single vessel?
I feel the urge to fly in other skies than you.
This stupefying dream of day and night should cease.
I yearn to see some new face in the crowd.
A single wish consumes my madness like a fire:
I shall have a home not confined by doors and walls.
Except Heart, there is no such house in the whole world
Where the doors are left open and theft does not threaten.
Every speck of wasteland carries an example.
Who is there to show? There is none willing to see.
Everything speaks behind these cloaks of silence.
Alas, there is no audience. Ears here are struck.
When free, listen to the sound of the roses’ glee.
This is not speech that has been uttered.
For a long past hour, someone keeps me company;
Is there anyone who can see the dialogue occur?
Rousing verse demands stimulating gathering.
Song of the pea-cock needs a flourishing forest.
© Sadat Jabeen
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Nasir Kazmi: Deewan: Ghazal No. 67; Page No. 100; 101
The stories in the lip-bound silences are different.
The expressions of the sorrows of the heart are different.
In another climate grief was more tolerable,
But the events now burdening our lives are different.
O the walker upon loyalty’s road, keep your watch.
The obstacles strewed upon this stony trail are different.
There is no fear of separation, nor the wish for union.
The worries and the troubles of my maverick heart are different.
In the last leaf-shedding only flowers fell from twigs.
This year, the omens of the fall are different.
The world lacks the pluck to sense my ache to its depth.
Endow me with a melody for my cry that is different.
One disclosing glance has bared the issue of being.
Now the fields in the vista of my eyes are different.
There will be troops, nor flags. There is money, neither pomp.
The marks of the monarchs of the soil are different.
People do not die for their beloveds these days.
The denizens of youth in my youthful times were different.
Nasir Kazmi: Deewan: Ghazal No. 18; Page No. 38
I have called at the front of massacre!
I have announced the voice of my heart!
Before, I had broken a gap in the door.
This time I‘ve shaken the foundation!
Such a tale I began at daybreak,
I have dimmed the lantern of day.
With sparks from the blaze of sorrow,
I have set my prison to flames.
The hands of the wind have wilted.
I have nourished the flowers on fire.
The Spark in the rose,
The Flare of the flute,
I have provoked all who burn.
The lost voice of forgotten eras
I have poured
In the bosom of the flute
Since the revelation of the Moon
I have roused the night tonight!
Nasir Kazmi: Deewan: Ghazal No. 10; Page No. 24, 25
Flower, nor Wine, neither Cup;
There are no signs of the past in my hand.
The leisure of my hobby has chained me.
My caprice has no way left to fly now.
This bitter consciousness meets no remedy.
I am not intoxicated as much as I drink.
Hear it immersed in the depths of heart.
No song is indeed the song of glee.
Sorrow in every form unlocks the heart
But the gathering lacks the courage for the cries.
The breeze in the morn of pleasure says to me:
Flower is the Summer, not the Sign.
There are hues of my heart still tangled
That lie beyond the vicinity of voice.
Expanses of such deserts wait for me yet
Upon whom no camel-feet have left their mark.
These atmospheres of gloom wait to light up.
But your heart does not possess the igniting spark.
Nasir, your Heart is a mound of ash,
If it does not beat with the clang of an axe.