Hindustani Lyrics | Page 8

Lone and bereft.
HALI.
XXV.
Like silver torrents flow thy words to me,
But ah--I have no voice to
answer thee.
My heart thy words have burnt with whips of fire,
Do they not burn
thy lips, O Heart's Desire?
Thy promises are broken every day,
Yet--See my faithfulness!--I hear
you say.
Candle-like wastes my body all these days
My flame-like tongue
endures to sing thy praise.
O Hasan, I have spoke and sighed and sung,
Yet never from my heart
my tale was wrung,
My secret grief can never find a tongue.
HASAN.
XXVI.
I cannot rise to follow her,

Here in the dust is my abode,
For I am but her foot-print left
Lying forgotten in the road.
Where are repose and patience gone?
Where is my honour, held so fair?
All these are naught to me--I dwell
In the black chambers of Despair!
INSHA.
XXVII.
How can I win that Hidden One
Who sits within the secret place?
For even in my very dreams
She wears the veil upon her face.
What heart is there in all the world
Can bear thy cruel tyranny?
Keep then this broken heart of mine
That thus thou mayst remember me!
JURAT.
XXVIII.
What kind of comforter art thou to me?
What help and solace in
calamity?
No wound is there upon my bruised heart
But thou hast
touched to make it sting and smart!
But yet, Beloved One, I ask in pain
When is the hour when thou wilt
come again?
My soul cries out to thee in bitter need
--When wilt
thou come--or wilt thou come indeed?

O Saki, do not pass my goblet by,
Although the feast is spread its lip
is dry.
Be careful, O my tears, lest you should tell
The world my
secret that you know too well.
O Sorrow, in thy tangled paths I go,
The Kaaba's gateway I no longer
know,
But bend my head wherever I see rise
The arch that curves
o'er the Beloved's eyes.
MIR.
XXIX.
To whom shall I relate
The weary story of my sorrowful love?
O Friend, this is my fate,
This is the record of the pain thereof.
I prayed in vain to her;
She said--You weary me, I hear thy prayer,
It is thy messenger,
But when it pleads with me I do not care.
I said--Never again
Canst thou forget my faithfulness to thee;
She answered in disdain
--What mean thy love and faithfulness to
me?
Life called to me
Telling me earth is full of hope and bliss,
Now undeceived I see
How foolish I to seek a world like this.
MIR SOZ.
XXX.
Even in the Kaaba courts my heart was moved,
Brooding upon the
idol that I loved,
Mourning its loss. Now like a bird am I,
That
painted in a picture cannot fly
Nor move nor sing; my heart is so
outworn
With all the lingering sorrow I have borne.
Within my

heart thy presence I have felt,
Within mine eyes, Beloved, thou hast
dwelt
For long long days. Who taught thee for a shrine
To choose a
heart so desolate as mine?
Long time I told my friends my bitter grief,

And in the telling sought to find relief;
In silence now instead I
take my rest,
And find that peace and loneliness are best.
MIR TAQI.
XXXI.
Wherever the Beloved looks she stirs
Trouble and longing sore and eager breath
And deep desire in all her
worshippers,
And some for her have drunk the cup of Death.
O Night of Separation, darkest night
Of deepest grief, thy cruelty shall cease;
To-morrow I shall greet the
dawning light
Within the city of Eternal Peace.
O threatening Whirlwind rolling on thy way,
I shall unloose thy knot, if thou but dare
With angry gusts to toss and
disarray
A single curl of the Beloved's hair.
Sometimes her beauty goads and maddens me,
I cannot bear her cruel loveliness,
But turn her mirror that she may
not see;
Why should I let her double my distress?

Hearken, O Momin, all thy life is done!
In idol-worship at the Temple thou
Hast spent thy days, and thus thy
years have run:
How canst thou call thyself a Muslim now?
MOMIN.
XXXII.
I, like a wandering bubble,
Am blown here and there
Shifting and changing and fashioned
Of water and air.
Thou turnest thy face, O Beloved,
I cannot tell why,
Art thou shy of a mirror, Beloved?
Thy mirror am I!
When over her face she unloosened
The dusk of her hair,
What need had the world of the cloud-wreaths,
They fled in despair.
MUSHAFI.
XXXIII.
No man hath ever passed
Into the Country of Eternal Rest
With every longing stilled.
Who hath not lingering cast

Long looks behind, and in his eager breast
Held many a secret yearning unfulfilled?
Ah, Mushafi, to thee
Silence and thought in solitude are best,
For thou hast known
That laurel crowns are idle vanity;
There is no worldly rank thou covetest,
And what to thee is Suleiman's high throne?
MUSHAFI.
XXXIV.
Where has my childhood gone, where are its placid years?
For cruel
youth