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The universe, apart from the radiance of the oneness of the Beloved, is nothing.
Where would we be, if Beauty were not self-regarding?
The dejections of the spectacle—there’s neither instruction, nor relish!
The forlornnesses of longing—there’s neither world, nor faith!
The song of the depth and height of existence and nonexistence is absurd,
The mirror of the difference between madness and dignity is a trifle.
All images of meaning are a hangover from the presentation of appearances,
All speech about Truth is the wineglass of the taste for praise.
The boast of intelligence, false; and the gain from worship—none!
It’s the dregs of a whole cup of heedlessness, whether world or faith.
Like a theme of faithfulness the breeze shows the hand of submission,
With the aspect of a footprint, the dust shows the dispersal of dignity.
Passion is the disorder of the bookbinding string of the pages of the senses,
Union is verdigris on the mirror face of the beauty of certainty.
Kohkan, hungry, is a laborer on the pleasure-house of his rival,
The Pillarless Mountain is a mirror of the heavy sleep of Shirin.
Who has seen a fire-flinging breath from the people of faithfulness?
Who has experienced an effect from the lament of sorrowful hearts?
Dispirited weakness has broken, on the face of the earth,
That prostration-showing mirror that’s called a “forehead.”1
Despair is a reflection of aloofness that mirrors the spring,
Illusion is a mirror of the creation of the image of certainty.
The mind of the two worlds turned to blood from the tumult of longing,
The gathering of despair, on the far side of manifestation and concealment, is colorful.
The devastation of all hope, and the anxiety of terror—
The turmoil of Hell is the autumn of the garden of lofty Paradise.
The breeze of a story of sickness is the breath of Jesus,
A bone fragment from an ant is the jewel of Solomon’s ring.
It’s the hangover wave of a single intoxication, whether Islam or infidelity,
It’s the crookedness of a single letter on a line, whether conjecture or certainty.
Prayer niche and idol’s eyebrow—a single dreaming road of ardor.
Ka’ba and idol temple—a single camel seat of stonelike sleep.
The pleasure of the Eid slaughterhouse of rivals—none!
Let the mirror turn to blood, so that the children’s robes would be colorful!
I hear the chanting of the people of the world, but
I have neither an inclination for praise, nor a mind for reproach.
How the nonsense babblers carry on—I take refuge in God!
Entirely devoid of the etiquette of dignity and propriety.
Write, “I take refuge in God,” oh nonsense-writing pen!
Petition, “Ya Ali,” oh evil-doing temperament!
Manifestation of the Lord’s grace, life and soul of the Seal of the Prophets,
Prayer niche of the Prophet’s family, Ka’ba of the creation of belief.
His name is so lofty, his rank is so high, that the sky’s back
Would remain forever bowed before the pride of the earth.
The grace of creation is involved with him alone—the way that, always,
The breath of the spring breeze is perfumed with rose scent.
His glory is so infidelity-burning that it would cause to fade
Like the color of the lover, the radiance of the idol temple of China.
Who can praise you beyond what is your due?
The flame of a candle—but the candle has been bound by laws.
Asadullah “Asad” is merchandise in the market of sinfulness,
Such that except for you, he’ll find no buyer.2
It’s insolent of me to presume to ask for things,
Although I have such confidence in your capacity for grace.
Give to my prayer such a rank of ready acceptance
That Assent would say a hundred times to every word, “Amen!”
With grief for Husain, may my breast be so overflowing
That my eyes would remain colored with the blood of the liver.
May I feel such love for Husain’s horse Duldul that, in the heat of ardor,
However far he would go, from him the step and from me the forehead.
The heart bound by love, the breast full of Oneness,
The gaze seeking God’s glory, and the breath choosing truth.
Accorded to enemies: the effect of the flame and smoke of Hell.
Provided for friends: the rose and hyacinth of lofty Paradise.
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This sleek betel nut that’s on the palm of the Sahib’s hand—
The way it adorns the hand—call it fine!1
The pen has its finger to its teeth: how to write of it?
Speech has its head in its collar: how to speak of it?
Write of it as the seal on the letter of revered and dear ones,
Speak of it as the amulet on the arm of self-adorning beautiful ones.
Write of it as the cosmetic-stained fingertip of beautiful ones,
Speak of it as the scar on the side of the liver of mad lovers.
Write of it as resembling the signet ring on the hand of Solomon,
Speak of it as the equal of the nipple of a Pari.
Let it be connected to the burnt-out fortune star of Qais,
Speak of it as the musky beauty spot on the charming face of Laila.
Suppose it to be the black stone of the wall of the Ka’ba,
Speak of it as the scent gland of the musk deer of the desert of Khutan.
If in form you suppose it to be the o in “opium,”2
In color, speak of it as the newly sprung greenery of the Messiah.3
If in a prayer cell you declare it to be the seal of prayer,
In a winehouse, speak of it as the plug in the cask of wine.
Why would you write of it as the lock on the door of the treasury of love?
Why would you speak of it as the point of the drawing-compass of longing?
Why would it be imagined as an unobtainable pearl?
Why would you speak of it as the pupil of the eye of the imagined bird?
Why would you write of it as the button of the robe of Laila?
Why would you speak of it as the footprint of the camel of Salma?
Suppose the noble gentleman’s hand to be a heart,
And call this glossy betel nut the black spot in the heart.4
127
Indeed, new moon, let’s hear his name,
The one to whom you are bowing in salute.
For two days you’ve come into view at daybreak,
With the same style and the same shape.
After all, where did you vanish to, for two days?
“This servant is helpless—it’s the circling of the days!
How could I have escaped?—for the sky
Had spread a net made of stars.”
Welcome, oh special delight of the special ones!
Bravo, oh common joy of the commoners!
As an excuse for not coming for three days,
You’ve come bringing the news of Eid.
You mustn’t forget to tell about it,
When you leave in the morning, and come at night.
I’m not the only one, for everyone knows
Your beginning, and your ending.
Why do you hide from me the secret of your heart?
Surely you don’t consider me indiscreet?
I know that today in the world
There’s only one hopeful place for people to go.
I grant that you have a slave ring in your ear,
But is not Ghalib his slave?
Do I know better, or do you know better?
Then I said by way of inquiry,
So what, oh moon, if to the shining sun you’re
Near every day on his perpetual road?
What degree of acquaintance do you have with him,
Except during the approach of Eid, in the month of fasting?
I know that thanks to his grace, you
Again want to become the full moon.
Without the moon, without the moonlight, who am I?
You’ll hardly dole me out a reward!
My own affair is a separate one,
What need do I have to deal with anyone else?
I long for a specially gracious gift,
If you hope for a general mercy.
He who will bestow on you the royal glory of radiance,
Will he not give me rose-colored wine?
Since fourteen heavenly stages
Your swiftness of foot has already traversed,1
They would be recipients of your radiance,
Street and palace and courtyard and landscape and roof.
Look—in my hand, brimful,
In your own shape, a crystal cup.
Then I moved on, along the path of the ghazal,
You, in your own style, were champing at the bit.
Bravo to the hairsplittingness of your arrow—2
Praise to the temperedness of your sword—
Your arrow, an arrow with no target left,
Your sword, a sword sheathed in an enemy.
How it makes thunder hold its breath—
How it shows the inferiority of lightning—
The trumpeting of your heavy-bodied elephant,
The gait of your swift-reined steed.
In the art of shape making, your mace,
If it wouldn’t have complete mastery,
Then from its repeated striking of heads and bodies,
How would the duplication of letters be manifest?
When, in the eternity before time, it was written down
On the pages of nights and days,
And in those pages, by the pen of fate,
In brief, orders were included,
It wrote down beautiful ones as lover-slayers,
It wrote down lovers as what their worst enemies wished.
About the sky it was said that it would be called
A swift-revolving blue-colored dome.
The imperative order was written, to write down
The beauty spot as a seed, and the curls as a net.
Fire and water and wind and dust took
The style of burning and wetness and wildness and rest.
The shining sun’s name, King of the Day,
The radiant moon’s title, Viceroy of the Evening.
To the grandeur of your kingship too
It gave the established aspect of a decree.
The writer of the order, according to his order,
Gave to this decree perpetual dominion—
From all eternity, there is a primordial proclamation,
To all eternity, let there be an outcome fulfilled!
128
After the end of the Eid festival of childhood
The days of youth kept offering us the wine of ecstasy—
Until we arrived at the outskirts of the clime of nonexistence.
Oh passed-away lifetime—one footstep to welcome the future!1
129
My speech is difficult to such an extent, oh heart,1
Listening to it, accomplished speakers
Enjoin me to speak what is easy—
I speak the difficult; and if I don’t speak, it’s difficult.2
130
The way fireworks are a pursuit of children,
The burning of the liver too has an ecstasy just like that.
The inventor of passion was a Doomsday disaster—
In passing, what a game he devised for boys!
