Translated from the Urdu by V. G. Kiernan
Freedom’s Dawn (August 1947)*
This leprous daybreak, dawn night’s fangs have mangled—
This is not that long-looked-for break of day,
Not that clear dawn in quest of which those comrades
Set out, believing that in heaven’s wide void
Somewhere must be the stars’ last halting-place,
Somewhere the verge of night’s slow-washing tide,
Somewhere an anchorage for the ship of heartache.
When we set out, we friends, taking youth’s secret
Pathways, how many hands plucked at our sleeves!
From beauty’s dwellings and their panting casements
Soft arms invoked us, flesh cried out to us;
But dearer was the lure of dawn’s bright cheek,
Closer her shimmering robe of fairy rays;
Light-winged that longing, feather-light that toil.
But now, word goes, the birth of day from darkness
Is finished, wandering feet stand at their goal;
Our leaders’ ways are altering, festive looks
Are all the fashion, discontent reproved—
And yet this physic still on unslaked eye
Or heart fevered by severance works no cure.
Where did that fine breeze, that the wayside lamp
Has not once felt, blow from—where has it fled?
Night’s heaviness is unlessened still, the hour
Of mind and spirit’s ransom has not struck;
Let us go on, our goal is not reached yet.
August 1952
At last half-promise of a spring has come—
Some flowers tear open their green cloaks and bloom,
And here and there some garden nooks begin
Their warblings, and defy the wintry gloom.
Night’s shadows hold their ground, but some faint streaks
Of day show, spreading each a rosy plume;
And in the gathering, even if our own blood
Or breath must feed them, a few lamps light the room.
Tilt your proud cap! for we, the world well lost,
Never need fear what comes from heaven’s grand loom.
Caged eyes will open when dawn fills the garden:
Dawn’s breeze they have had pledge and promise from.
Desert still desert, Faiz—but bleeding feet
Have saved some thorns at least from its dry tomb.
Bury Me Under Your Pavements
Bury me, oh my country, under your pavements,
Where no man now dare walk with head held high,
Where your true lovers bringing you their homage
Must go in furtive fear of life or limb;
For new-style law and order are in use,
Good men learn—“Stones locked up, and dogs turned loose.”
Your name still cried by a rash zealot few
Inflames the itching hand of tyranny;
Villains are judges and usurpers both—
Who is our advocate, where shall we seek justice?
But all hours man must spend are somehow spent;
How do we pass these days of banishment?
When my cell’s window-slit grows dim, I seem
To see your hair spangled with starry tinsel;
When chains grow once more visible, I think
I see your face sprinkled with dawn’s first rays;
In fantasies of the changing hours we live,
Held fast by shadowy gates and towers we live.
This war is old of tyrants and mankind:
Their ways not new, nor ours; the fires they kindle
To scorch us, age by age we turn to flowers;
Not new our triumph, not new their defeat.
Against fate therefore we make no complaint,
Our hearts though exiled from you do not faint.
Parted today, tomorrow we shall meet—
And what is one short night of separation?
Today our enemies’ star is at its zenith—
But what is their brief week of playing God?
Those who keep firm their vows to you are proof
Against the whirling hours, time’s warp and woof.