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Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

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  • #16
    Re: Pukhtoon wali.

    Khatir Afridi


    ته به ګرځې داسې ښکلی زه به مړ يم
    چې مې اوس وای لږ ليدلی زه به مړ يم
    جنازه چې مې د کوره ګور ته واخلي
    ته به نه يې راوتلی زه به مړ يم
    خړې خاورې به په م باندې انبار شي
    هر سړی به درومي غلی زه به مړ يم
    زه به هېر شمه قرارې مرګي ورک شه
    سره خاندي به ټول کلی زه به مړ يم
    بې له مانه ما څوک نه درځنې غواړي
    ما خپل ځان درته بخښلی زه به مړ يم
    چې په ډېرو شپو مې هېر نکړې جانانه
    دا ستا یاد مې ډېر ساتلی زه به مړ يم
    زه د یار د دره بې له خپله ياره
    بل چا نه يم راشړلی زه به مړ يم
    په دا تور سترګو کله کله ګوره
    جوړ په ما د خاورو څلی زه به مړ يم
    چې په زبر مې تېرېږې خدای لپاره
    لږ شه ما ته پښه نيولی زه به مړ يم
    بيا لږ راشه په خندا شه چې ښايسته شي
    چې مزار مې شي مښلی زه به مړ يم
    که نور هيڅ نه وي چې ما لره رادرومې
    خړ خيبر خو دې ليدلی زه به مړ يم
    د کاکل په خطا بند د مخ کتاب کړه
    ما “خاطر” په تا سپارلی زه به مړ يم


    -------------------------------------------------

    ستا د سپينه مخه ځار زما زړګے شه
    هم له تانه سپېلنې او هم لوګے شه

    د زړګي زخمونه ګورمه چې څه کا
    يو ځل بيا هغه پخوا په رنګ مُسکے شه

    ستا په ژبه باندې هر ژبه خوند کا
    ای اشنا لا پېښورے لا افريدے شه

    لکه کور دې د زړګي زما ويران کړو
    هجره دغسې ويرانه دې کورګے شه

    زه او ته د چا ژړا او خندا څه کړو
    زما اوښکې دي باران ته پسرلے شه

    اوس يې لرې شه د ګل ځنې رقيبه
    چې پخپله باندې ګل شي بيا اغزے شه

    زه خاطر دې نور خاطر کولی نشم
    ای رقيبه که پوهيږې نو سړے شه

    چې صحرا شي را ښکاره دنيا فاني شي
    ته خاطر ته په کتو لکه هوسۍ شه


    ------------------------------------------------------
    خواږه ترخه شو او د ښو هسې نامه پاتې ده
    د بدو شپې دي او د ښو هسې نامه پاتې ده

    ته رانه هېر يې خدايه هر څه په دولت کومه
    د دوعاګانو او ښېرو هسې نامه پاتې ده

    په سترګو ژاړو او په زړه کې سره خاندو اشنا
    مکړه ګيلې د زهېرېدو هسې نامه پاتې ده

    د ډېرې مينې نه چې زه او ته پرې نه پوهيږو
    د هغو ورځو او د شپو هسې نامه پاتې ده

    چې په پلؤ کې يې په زړونو باندې اور ، لګوو
    دا ستا د هغو آننګو هسې نامه پاتې ده

    سبا به وايې نن د خدای په خاطر راشه لږه
    په ما خاطر کې د ژوندو هسې نامه پاتې ده


    ------------------------------------------------------

    Comment


    • #17
      Re: Pukhtoon wali.

      نظم فرياد.........اجمل خټک


      دَ لـويـو لــويــو قــدرتــونــو ربــه..................يـو تمنــا ده اورېـــدے شــې کنــه
      ستا دَ سکڼی سکڼی ماښام نه لوګے..................دَ چا دَ زړۀ لوګے لېدے شې کنه
      ستا دَ سېلو او طوفانونو پۀ مخ..................يو اسوېلے دے درلېږل ئې غواړم
      ستا دَ چپو چپو سېندونو پۀ نوم..................لېمۀ راډک شو سَسَؤل ئې غواړم
      هسې نَه؛ اُف لۀ خلې وېستل کفر شی
      هسې نَه؛تاته مو ژړېدل کفر شی


      ستـا دَ جنــت دَ نعمتـونـو نـه ځـار...................زۀ دلتـه اوږی پـۀ جهــان ژاړم
      ستـا دَ دوزخ لـــۀ لَـــړَمـــآنـــو تـوبــــه...................زۀ دلتــــه دا لَــړَمــانـــان ژاړم
      دلته دَ ګېډې دوزخ تش ګرځــوو...................هلته شو ستا دَ دوزخونو خشاک
      دلتـــه دَ دغــه کســابــانــو خــوراک...................هلتـــه دَ هغـــه خامـارانو خـوراک
      نۀ مو ځان تور کړو او نۀ سپېن پاتې شُو
      نــۀ دَ دنيــــا شــو نــــۀ دَ ديــــن پاتــــې شـــو


      ستا دَ سنګېنو فَېصلـو نه قربان..................ؤلې حَېران يم؛ کوم قانون ؤمنم
      تۀ خو دې خپل قارون پۀ زمکه منډې..................زۀ دې پۀ سر باندې قارون ؤمنم
      ستـا پــۀ رضــا زمــا رضــا ده ربــه!..................کاڼــے هـــــم نفــس پــورې تړلے شمه
      چې بل ښامار پۀ خزانو ووينم..................آخــر انسـان يـم؛ څـنــګــه غــلے شمه
      راډک شــــــو زړۀ اېســارَؤلــے نــۀ شـــــم
      خلـۀ مــاتـــه ښـــه ده خـــو ګنـــډلـــے نـــۀ شـــم


      ستا دَ جنت پۀ طمع طمع چې مری..................دَ هغه اوږو پۀ سلګو مې قسم
      پۀ دې دوزخ کښې ئې نور نۀ شم لېدے..................ستا دَ رضوان پۀ منارو مې قسم
      يا خو دَ زمکې پۀ دې ارته سينه..................ماته خپل ژوند زما جنت راکړه
      يا دَ نهر دوزخی مرګ نه مخکښې..................دَيوې چغې اجازت راکړه
      چې دا ستا اوږی ستا پۀ خوان ماړه کړم
      يا په خپل ځان باندې کارغان ماړه کړم

      --------------------------------------------------------------------------------



      دَ يار دَ کلې دَ کوڅې مازيګر
      ما لېونے کړی،لېونے مازيګر

      ما پۀ جنت هم بدل کړے نۀ د
      دَ محبت دَ ميکدې مازيګر

      دَ زړۀ لۀ درده ناقلاره وومه
      دَ اور ترخې اوبۀ مې څښې مازيګر

      سم لۀ ماښامه تبې ونيومه
      تاراته کړې وې ښېرې مازيګر

      رقيبان ؤبوږنېدۀ،ؤيرېده
      مونږ چې يو بل ته شو نزدې مازيګر

      ستا دَ ښائېست نه تاوېدۀ،لوګېدۀ
      غزل غزل سپرلے سپرلے مازيګر

      ستا پۀ کوڅه کښې راترغاړې ووځی
      انګار انګار لمبې لمبې مازيګر

      ځان ې ستايۀ،دَ ځان صفت ې کوو
      زما غزل ې ماته وې مازيګر


      زمونږ کوڅې ته دې کاتۀ،روان وې
      زما صابره ماليدې مازيګر

      Comment


      • #18
        Re: Pukhtoon wali.

        نن ې راته بيا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی

        څنګ چې ې بېګا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی

        ډک دَ ارمانونو زړۀ
        ،چاته چې به ما ښودۀ
        داسې به هر چا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی
        دا زما دَ ژوند سوال،
        دا زما دَ مرګ سوال
        ګوره چې اشنا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی
        ماته ې بيا بيا کتل،
        ماسره ې زړۀ وو خو
        خوا کښې ورته چا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی
        ځمه ورته بيا کښېنم،
        اوس خو به مې اومنی
        دا خو ې پخوا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی
        ؤلې بادر خانه اوس
        تۀ پرې خفه کېږې چې
        چاته به هم تا وئيل ؛
        پرېږده مړه بيا به شی


        ================================================== ================

        بس همدا زما ګناه ده چي پښتون یم


        هسي مېنه مي تالا ده چي پښتون یم
        بس همدا زما ګناه ده چي پښتون یم

        دبل چا وینه د سرو زرو په بیه
        خوزما وینه وړیا ده چي پښتون یم

        هر چي بل ئې هست و نیست په غینمت وړي
        هغه چاره نن په ماده چي پښتون یم

        ماشومان مي په بمونو باندي وژني
        په ما جوړه کربلا ده چي پښتون یم

        ما په زوره دخپل کورکلي څه باسي
        وائې همدغه دي سزا ده چي پښتون یم


        ================================================== ==================

        د دوي حق به منو




        دوي مي د ټول قام وارثان دي، د دوي حق به منو
        خو بس د ذهن غلامان دي، د دوي حق به منو

        دوي د قام سترګي دي، د قام په سترګو ګوتې منډي
        دوي دانشور دي، اديبان دي، د دوي حق به منو

        دوی پګړۍ نه تړي، د مارکس بابا کتاب هم وايي
        دوي ږير خرېيلي مُلايان دي، د دوي حق به منو

        دوي د اورنګ نوکري کړي، هم جايزې ترې اخلي
        هم د خوشحال بابا لمسان دي، د دوي حق به منو

        بلا واړه خلک، بلا اوږده اوږده نومونه
        په کاغذونو کي لويان دي، د دوی حق به منو

        دوي که واړه دي په کردار خو په قامت اوچت دي
        دوي مي بې شکه مشران دي، د دوی حق به منو

        دوي وايي دا هلک ګستاخ دی، مشران نه پرېږدي
        په ما د زړه له کومې ګران دي، د دوی حق به منو

        دوي د پښتو د يو يو ټکي اُجرتونه اخلي
        دوي د خدمت په لار روان دي، د دوي حق به منو

        چي د رښتيا ډګر ته راشي د خپل ځان منکر شي
        خو د شعرونو اتلان دي، د دوي حق به منو
        ..................................................


        مېنه می په ټول پښتونستان خوره وره لرم
        ناست په بل وطن ېم خو مې خیا ل ذره ذره لرم

        اورکه په کابل بل شی یا وینه په قندهارتوﺉ شی
        ژړا وزیرستان کښې یا ګومل په وینو سره لرم

        زړه مې په مزارکښې او دوه سترګې په خېبراوسي
        ښپې مې په المان کښي خو مې خیا ل په تاتره لرم

        هریو مې وهي او بیا ظالم وحشي هم زه یمه
        زه ملګرو داسې چم ګاونډ کښې ګذاره لرم

        ما پسې را پا سي دا مذ هب او ا نسا نیت په نوم
        او مې وهې او مې وژني ورور دا سې ساده لرم

        کله مې روسۍ په قندوزاو وژني اوورک مې کړي
        کله مې زه یار عرب په سمه او په غره لرم

        کله پاکستان مې کړې ملګرې ده اهل کتا ب
        کله مې په کور کښې یو سني او بل شیعه لرم

        کله د کشمیر او فلسطین مجاهد زه یمه
        کله ترورست شم داسې ډېر رنګونه زه لرم

        کله مها جر شم بیا غریب شمه هم سپک شمه
        کله واشنګټن سپینې مانړۍ کښې اډانړه لرم

        یو مې په ملا وټپوي واۍ توریا لۍ ﺉ ته
        بل ته مې ورمخکي کړي ګذار په سینه زه لرم

        کله چه بیا ویش ده تا وانونو او ده ګټې شي
        ګټه بیا ده دوۍ شي او تا وان په غاړه زه لرم

        __________________

        Comment


        • #19
          Re: Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

          د امن سندره

          معززو شريفانو انسانانو

          وينه خپله که د بل د بدن څاڅي
          د ادم د نسل وينه ده بهيږي
          جنګ خو جنګ وي که په شرق وي که غرب وي
          د دنيا د امن وينه به توئيږي

          بم په کور که په سرحد باندې غورځيږي
          سل کورونه د روحونو پرې ورانيږي

          خپل پټي که د بل چا پټي سوزيږي
          لوږي تندې به په هر لوري زياتيږي

          دا ټينکونه چې په وړاندې وروستو کيږي
          د وطن زمکې په شاړو کښې بدليږي

          څوک سندرې د بري څوک د غم ساندې
          ژوند په مړو باندې وير کوي ژړيږي

          جنګ په خپله يوه لويه مسئله ده
          په جنګونه مسئلې نه هوا ريږي

          اور او وينه به څه درکړي انسانانو
          مختاجي او لوږه نوره سيوا کيږي

          معززو شريفانو انسانانو
          جنګ به نکړو جنګ کښې هر څه تباه کيږي

          چي رڼا زما او ستا په کور کښي راشي
          دا د امن شمع پريږدئ چې بليږي

          د خپل ځان د زبادولو په خاطرنن
          ضروري نه ده انسان د چې قتليږي؟

          که د کور تورو تيارو ته رڼا غواړئ
          ضروري نه ده چې کور د سوزل کيږي

          جنګ په نورو سنګرونو هم کول شي
          ضروري نه ده چې وينه د توئيږي

          د ژوندون په مخ د عقل سترګې هم شته
          ليونتوب د پکښي هر وخت نه غړيږي
          راشئ ورکې دا تيارې د بد بختئ کړئ
          مشالونه د فکرونو د بليږي

          ځئ چې جنګ وکړو د هغه بلاګانو
          چې د امن د کارون مخې ته کيږي
          جنګ د داسې تفرقو سره چې وکړو
          اتحاد په امن نور هم سيوا کيږي
          چې وحشت او بربريت سره جنګ وکړو
          چې په امن د تهذ يب لمن پلنيږي

          جنګ د وشي د مرګي د سياست سره
          د انسان بقا د امن په سر کيږي

          جنګ د لوږې ،غريبئ سره د وشي
          چې د ژوند د خوږو خوند په سيوا کيږي

          د بې لارو وکدارانو جنګ پکار دے
          چې په امن د بې وسو ځان خلاصيږي

          جنګ د وشي د زردارو ستمګرو
          چې غلام د غلامئ نه ازاديږي
          جنګ د هغې فلسفې سره د وشي
          چې د امن د خيالونو سره جنګيږي

          ځان له داسې دنيا جوړه کړو د مينې
          چې د امن فرشتې پکښ اوسيږي


          ================================================== ==============

          I am a PROUD Pukhtoon


          I grew up on the bank of River Swat
          and grew up at the foot of Karakar.
          Many stories I can tell,
          many songs I can sing.
          Mountains taught me to stand erect
          with my chin up, to be exact.
          I vow to be staunch and unbending,
          to face the storms and harsh weathering.
          Violent rivers taught me to be
          magnanimous, vigorous and yet so free.
          Sun rays and the dew drops
          have given me a beautiful heart.
          The blazing Sun and fierce snowstorms
          have exquisitely forged my gallant morals.
          I embraced the free air and the wild breeze,
          which has ,with its due course
          merged my will,strength and thoughts
          into an organic whole.
          I am part of my land,part of Nature.
          Nature and Pukhtuns are a single entity,
          inseperable.
          I belong to the people,belong to the history.
          I hope that the whole world
          registers my existence.
          Rough hands are tampering with me now,
          and damaging my true being.
          The war drums are shaking the Earth,
          the alarms sounding from far and wide.
          My colourful dreams and songs of peace
          are mingled with the sounds of war.
          But thats not the dream I dreamt,
          neither my fate, I won't comment.
          Our luck shall blossom,I'm sure,again
          our fortune shall definitely change.
          The spring shall return
          and the birds shall sing.
          Heaven and Earth may not live forever,
          but the tales of gallant Pukhtuns shall always remain

          Comment


          • #20
            Re: Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

            Ghani Khan in English
            A Poppy Flower


            In a desert, once, on a hunt did I find,

            With a radiant smile, a flower so fair;

            Sadly, I approached and sighed, “Ah! Of my kind

            Are you too – a hapless flower from a beloved's hair.

            Frail fingers wouldn't take you to a soft face so close,

            Nor would you be kissed by lips delicate and rose.”

            With a silent smile the flower replied, “Don't lose heart!

            This desert I wouldn't give up for the gardens of Iran,

            A solitary I am here while legions are there,

            Amidst this cursed soil I stand apart.

            In this gray desert, a flamboyant flame of divine light am I,

            Beauty's silent song, a miracle from the sky.

            In your garden, there are thousands of flowers like me –

            A nameless droplet in a nameless sea.

            You too, in your desert, don't feel forlorn,

            To behold you at last shall come a sore Ghani Khan.


            __________________


            Entreaty [with English translation]


            na may sta da nari shudi dy pakar
            na da zulfi wal pa wal laka khamar
            na da bati pashan danga ghari ghwaram
            nargasay stargy na daki da khumar
            na ghakhuna dy laluna da adan
            na nangy dak sara sara laka anar
            na pasti da sarindy pa shan khabari
            na wajood laka da saar way mazadar
            khu bas yow shai rata ra ukhaya dilbara
            da lala pashan zargy ghawaram daghdar
            yow dawa ukhaqi chi da ghum ao muhabat way
            lakuno laluna dy karam zaar



            Poems - translation





            I do not need your red sculpted lips,

            Nor hair in loops like a serpent,s coils

            Nor a nape as graceful as a swan,s,

            Nor narcissus eyes full of drunkenness,

            Nor teeth as perfect as pearls of heaven,

            Nor cheeks ruddy and full as pomegranates,

            Nor a voice mellifluous as a sarinda,

            Nor a figure as elegant as a poplar,

            But show me just this one thing, my love,

            I seek a heart stained like a poppy flower

            Pearls by millions I would gladly cede,

            For the sake of tears borne of love and grief.

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            • #21
              Re: Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

              Heaven And Earth


              Would there be elation and youth, the beloved and a chalice full;
              Several flowers and a few friends in a mellow evening.
              Passion be light and fire, and the heart a flaming tandoor;
              I would gladly give up your heavens to embrace such a life.
              I’d far prefer this gain because no color is at rest;
              Each moment, each hue of life, is your time’s helpless slave;
              And the mullah says, in paradise, time would be my slave –
              If he were somehow undone, all my troubles would end.
              If I find eternal youth, it would become a curse;
              I cherish it now as its beauty is soon consumed.
              An eternally full moon, an eternal sweet sixteen,
              Eternal youth, a river of wine, is it a reward or hell?
              I’d weep after this world, and yearn for the night’s crescent,
              And remember everyday, the thin mist of eventide.
              Sick of faithful houris, I’d seek a fickle beloved;
              Man is a hunter by nature, and revels in hunting.
              I would fast on revelry’s riverside,
              And sulk after the cupbearer’s half-full chalice.
              Anything eternal becomes a curse and a catastrophe;
              It suits only you, this eternal beginning and end.
              Man seeks in each new palace a new beloved;
              Seeks red flowers in a wasteland, seeks lighting at night;
              He’s lost in unending darkness, and blinded by perpetual light;
              He is the child of change and cannot stay the same.
              If you took him to heaven, this nature and this being,
              He’ll soon be searing and weeping with sore eyes.
              O lord of great bestowal, turn this world into heaven!
              The formula is simple, comprising these three things –
              As I’ve said before, a beloved, youth, and a chalice,
              So that my silly head is amused from time to time;
              And after this worldly death, endow me to the Mullah,
              If the wretch would be appeased by mere dreams of houris.
              Give me a houri here – lively, full, and fair –
              A loving white candle, which burns and flames
              In her glance myriad colors; in her nature myriad moods;
              With manners such as spring – now sunshine, now rain;
              Would she be under one skin, a harem of women;
              Now brimming and vivacious, now quiet and retiring;
              And in my tired heart, kindle restive flames,
              Blazing like fire and dancing like a rill,
              And with one impatient glance, intoxicate me so
              As to leave everyone amazed and the cupbearer envious.
              In place of those thousands give me one here;
              Turn my eternal youth to a few years’ rejoicing;
              If you cannot do this, lord, keep your fat houris;
              I neither need them there nor miss them here.
              Those fat and fair ones who yield without entreaty;
              Wide and hungry eyes, wallowing in malmal.
              Lord! My beloved lord! Just grant this one prayer,
              Or else, your Ghani would pine away in love.


              -------------------------------------------------------------------------

              Wasiat (extract)


              Though tombstones fine of bluish slate
              Should ornament, adorn, my grave,
              But I were to have died a slave,
              Come, spit on and defile them!
              If my body were not bathed,
              In my blood, and sanctified,
              Do not ever desecrate
              Precincts of the mosque with it.
              And if I were not to be
              Into numerous pieces hacked
              By the forces of the foe,
              Mother, dear, how could you
              Over me lament and cry?
              I shall soon this land, deprived
              Both of honour and of pride,
              Into Paradise transform,
              Or the ranks of Pukhtoon youth
              Decimate, their streets denude.

              __________________


              When Man Sits Down In Dust


              Manhood stands tall and high, and becomes madness;
              The self takes leave of being and becomes ecstasy.
              When iron sated with blood embraces love,
              It turns into a bewildered sitar string.
              When time robs man of love and the loved one,
              He sees the beloved’s glory and his own.
              How man sprouts when he sits down in dust!
              A manjila resting on riches becomes a serpent.
              Don’t shower houris and gilman over me. Enough!
              God, I swear, I’m not concerned with anyone save you;
              Where today, I walk oblivious and proud,
              God knows, to this garden, who will be the heir.
              I am a Pukthun and am not afraid of death;
              I am angered at an empty life and a desolate end.
              The river of doubt runs deep through my heart,
              Wondering when the brilliant waterfall of hope will flow.
              My heart gazes at your indifferent eye and so
              At times the great string breaks into tears.
              Is music lament or rapture – I cannot decide;
              Every tone now moves us, now becomes shrill.

              Comment


              • #22
                Re: Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

                On, On, And Onwards


                I am in love with light but do not fear the dark;
                If I don’t regret sin, I don’t boast of sinning either.
                Yesterday a seed, today a flower, tomorrow I’ll turn to dust;
                I am a gust of wind blowing over the desert garden –
                Now, a breeze, now rain, at times I sear in flames,
                But I move ever onwards –
                I’ll be lost if I stand still

                If I chance upon flowers, I fill my lap with fragrance
                And I spread it all over, smiling and cheering;
                If I chance upon a world of colors, I become a rainbow;
                In parti-colored glory, I dance like a white candle.
                In the house of revelry, when I find the cupbearer,
                I become a mad ecstasy, unfolding in dreams.
                If the world grows dark, bringing fire, lightning, and curse,
                I am a Puhktoon mountain of courage, intrepid and unyielding;
                And in times of mourning, I sit by the wise
                Laughing at them,
                And laughing at myself
                I’m maddened with cares, and tired of searching
                Is that not what I’m here for? I don’t understand –
                But on, on, and onwards I go, ever onwards,
                Toward a destiny I will one day reach;
                And whatever comes on the way, night or day,

                I revel in light
                But do not fear the dark.

                =============================================


                Nurse


                To serve the sick and wretched
                Is not service but worship;
                Like a mother, mercy and love
                Belong to Eve’s true nature.
                This struggle against death
                Is full of courage and daring –
                This mercy in the blaze of pain
                And a white beacon in darkness.
                All living men are sons of women,
                So is their beauty and excellence;
                If the world looks down on them
                When has it acknowledged merit?
                A reproach to blind asses
                Who turn every gem into dust.
                The daughter of grace and mother of life
                Is wherefore God created Eve.
                It’s us poets who have made
                Her a cupbearer or a beloved;
                The west’s perverse culture
                Has made her a seductive demon –
                Neither a mother nor a sister;
                Neither of religion nor of the world.

                The real attributes of Eve
                Are service, mercy and love –
                This struggle against death
                Is not service but worship.

                __________________


                The Prison Dream


                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world.
                I lie and rest my head on the beloved’s lap;
                I see myself rising like a falcon to the air;
                Alighting on the roof of Mehmoud I become eyes of Ayaz.
                I rise from the quiet heart like a tender love song,
                Bartering for houris the age of courtesans.

                I dream I am sitting on the cool bank of Jindai –
                My beloved amongst maidens stands out as a candle;
                Her red lips smile and tell me to weep on,
                ‘Drink your lifeblood, for it is a joyous wine.’
                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

                I dream of an evening at a garden full of flowers –
                Red eyes of the cupbearer with wine in ruddy hands;
                Fingers on a sitar in elation like Khayyam’s,
                Gently turning over it the sweet fable of love.
                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

                I dream that the white moon is rising with a smile;
                My sweetheart is shy and slowly reaches me –
                Wine comes to the lips, demise to the mouth,
                And measure for measure she gives me red élan.
                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world.

                I dream that I set out shrouded in a zephyr;
                Go to my darling’s side as a vision of love;
                Hang before her eyes like a desert dream,
                And lose in one jangle the riches of my life.
                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

                I dream that I set off like a butterfly;
                Fly round a narcissus and skim past a jasmine;
                Circle the necklace round the beloved’s delicate neck
                And hail her, invisible, with silent greetings.
                I dream, and seek for it some answer from the world

                I dream that I rise like the cry of Mansoor –
                A handful of dust, I become an ocean of light.
                But then I hear the Azan and wake up with a flurry.
                Sleep takes away the dreams and the world comes to life
                Saying, ‘lay down Ghani Khan, do your time in jail.’



                Hyderabad Jail – 1948
                __________________




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                • #23
                  Re: Excellent Work of Islahuddin (Islah_G).

                  Hell


                  It is the measure of man’s eye –
                  The black and the white;
                  The fancy of man’s tongue –
                  Both milkweed and honey.
                  The tapping of my fingertips,
                  A soft arm and smooth cheek –
                  These songs of my spirit,
                  Flowery and sweet.
                  My god has made this
                  Colorful wine from water;
                  For some a sea of wine
                  Is a droplet of zamzam;
                  For some a sea of zamzam
                  Is a glum evening of sorrow;
                  To some a small white candle
                  Stands bright as the moon;
                  Some hear the message of Gabriel
                  From the red lips of the beloved.
                  One crown turns crimson with blood;
                  Some throne blackened by night;
                  One found it on the cross;
                  The other on a red silken pillow;
                  Some discover, like Moses,
                  In a lifeless idol the face of the beloved –
                  One turns it into dread and tears,
                  The other into beauty and spirit.
                  Some from a flower, from a child’s face,
                  Create the lips of love;
                  Some find it by the narcissus,
                  Some among thorny bushes.
                  Happy the man who went
                  Laughing to the lap of his love –
                  Some tear from the bridal dress
                  A coffin for the beloved.
                  Lord! Lord! My lord!
                  I’m maddened by reflections –
                  How can I curse and tyrannize
                  The spring and crimson flowers.
                  How can I lend the Mullah an ear
                  And forget the lark and bulbul;
                  How upon your grace and light
                  Can I cast the veil of ugliness!
                  Turn the white morning of laughter
                  To a dark eve and tomb?
                  Turn man’s despair to
                  The red joy of afterlife?
                  From the fakir’s intrepidity
                  Create a king’s drunkenness?
                  From the fire and might of hell
                  Delineate your grace?
                  How can I believe you made
                  This world and the skies for this –
                  When Khayyam is driven by force
                  To the pilgrimage of ka’aba?
                  This heart so full of spirits was
                  Made just to harbor doubts?
                  Were beauty and love spun out
                  As a tale of retribution?
                  You made out of your grace
                  Beauty and doting;
                  The shade of your under-plumes
                  Is soft and colorful at each sundown.
                  You laughed that the rose’s color
                  Was borne away on a butterfly’s wing;
                  In your hand, Khayyam’s goblet
                  Took away abandon and love.
                  How do I bother Ghani with
                  The end and the judgment day?
                  Imbue spite in a bulbul’s heart
                  For springtime and flowers?
                  How can I lay the shawl of a vassal
                  On the fair face of Laila?
                  Fulfill the longing of a Negro
                  With the presence of a fairy?
                  How can I turn over to the hand
                  Of the beloved the dagger of betrayal?
                  How can I sink in a dark well
                  The secret of enamored eyes?
                  How can I submerge a beautiful world
                  In a single drop of night;
                  How can I turn the glow
                  Of candlelight to ashes!

                  Lord! Lord! My lord!
                  I’m maddened by reflections
                  How can I curse and tyrannize
                  The spring and crimson flowers!
                  Khanpur Jail

                  ================================================== ================

                  A Spring Night



                  It was an enchanting night in spring,
                  Alive with sparkling and shimmering stars;
                  The pretty moon stood still in wonder
                  While a madman pleaded to his love.

                  ‘Give me the knowing from on high,
                  My eyes a rapture from your self,
                  From your own self, my love, your self!’
                  The madman pleaded to his love.

                  Radiance flowed with a sudden crash,
                  A bit in trance and a little proud,
                  Finding speech as the being turned mute.
                  The madman pleaded to his love

                  The madman pried open his heart,
                  Could barely let inside a spark;
                  The rest was full of the world and self.
                  The madman pleaded to his love

                  The river receded and light flowed back,
                  As to the beloved love’s rapture returned,
                  Leaving the madman and his pledge behind.
                  It was an enchanting night in spring.
                  Simla, Hindustan
                  7 December 1944

                  ================================================== ===============

                  King


                  What good is the world’s kingship?
                  Why multiply your cares?
                  It’s hard to weigh justice –
                  You’d make this more that less.
                  Don’t you have enough worries
                  That you seek the world’s troubles?
                  What would you do with such a throne
                  As makes you weep night and day?
                  In a large herd of mules,
                  The great mule leads the rest –
                  A great king of beasts
                  Is the greatest beast of all.
                  This world – a dog’s tail –
                  Cannot be straightened or mended;
                  With a black cat’s body
                  It blackens more with washing.
                  A kingdom is created
                  When half men starve and half die;
                  When one man feeds the flesh
                  Of another to dogs at home.
                  What would such life mean
                  That you either kill or die?
                  Where are your fruits and roses?
                  You keep a garden and kill the bulbul?
                  Lord, if you grant me
                  Kingship of the world,
                  I’ll hurl it out of home
                  Like dung on a dunghill.
                  These couple of living moments
                  I cannot spend in brawls;
                  Over this pot of cruelty,
                  Lord, place another lid;
                  Just give me some flowers
                  And a lovely sweetheart;
                  A little garden
                  On the riverside;
                  So I may sit on the bank
                  In the cool shade of a weeping willow
                  And write with cheer
                  Some pleasing ghazals –
                  Now plead to the beloved,
                  Now curse and taunt the Mullah;
                  Praise the cup and the cupbearer
                  To a farmer full of turnips;
                  And to you, my lord,
                  Complain like a child.
                  Now warm and lively hope,
                  Now burnt out sighs,
                  Now rhythm and music,
                  Now chalice and love –
                  Immersed in a colorful world,
                  Oblivious of the world.
                  Give rule to those
                  Who can endure its force;
                  With the hand of a butcher
                  And character of a snake,
                  Who can sacrifice to themselves
                  The blood of their brothers;
                  Who can both eat and digest
                  The flesh of the poor.
                  The head carrying the crown
                  Is the one that kills like a plague;
                  That roars and tears like a panther
                  And frightens like a ghost.
                  The throne cannot be taken
                  Without sword and hangman;
                  The more kings there are,
                  The world is worse for it.
                  A great king is a great curse
                  Who thrives on the curse of blood.
                  Kingship is like fire
                  And thrives on burning.
                  Lord, be gracious to us
                  And keep us from this calamity!
                  Find a great ass somewhere and
                  Load it with this bag of gems.
                  Just beg him once, Sahib,
                  On my behalf and say,
                  ‘Watch, you pimp’s ass, don’t
                  Strike Ghani with a kick.”

                  Hyderabad Jail

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