The Garden Of Bright Waters | Page 4

old playthings.?The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door.
Mira is a mountain goat that climbs to die?Upon the top peak in the rocks of grief;?It is the hour; make haste.?The lover to his lass: I have fallen before your door.
_From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._
GHAZAL OF MAJID SHAH
Grief is hard upon me, Master, for she has left me;?The black dust has covered my pretty one.
My heart is black, for the tomb has taken my friend;?How pleasantly would go the days if my friend were here.
I can only dream of the stature of my friend;?The flowers are dying in my heart, my breast is a fading garden.
Her breast is a sweet garden now, and her garments are gold flowers; I am an orchard at night, for my friend has gone a journey.
I am Majid Shah, a slave that ministers to the dead;?Abdel Qadir Gilani, even the Master, shall not save me.
_From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._
GHAZAL OF MIRA
The world passes, nothing lasts, and the creation of men?Is buried alive under the vault of Time.
Autumn comes pillaging gardens;?The bulbuls laugh to see the flowers falling.
Wars start up wherever your eye glances,?And the young men moan marching on to the batteries.
Mira is the unkempt old man you see on the road;?He has taken his death-wound in battle.
_From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._
BALLADE OF AJAM THE WASHERMAN
Come to me to-day wearing your green collar,?Make your two orange sleeves float in the air, and come to me. Touch your hair with essence and colour your clothes yellow; The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart;?Come to me.
The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart?Because I have seen your gold rings and your amber rings;?Your eyes have lighted a small fire below my heart,?Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and come to me.
Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and you will be more
beautiful?Than the brown girls of poets and the milk-white wives of kings. The coil of your hair is like a hangman's rope;?But press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves.
Press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves,?And give yourself once to Ajam. Slip away weeping,?Slip weeping away from the house of the wicked, and come to me. Come to me to-day wearing your green collar,?Make your two orange sleeves float in the air and come to me.
_From the Pus'hto (Afghans)._
GHAZAL OF ISA AKHUN ZADA
Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me;?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me;?Beauty with the flame shawl, let me say a little thing,?Lend your small ears to my quick sighing.?Breathing idol, I have come to the walls of death;?And there are coloured cures behind the crystal of your eyes. Life is a tale ill constructed without love.?Beauty of the flame shawl, do not repulse me;?I am at your door wasted and white and dying.?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me;?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me.
This is the salaam that slaves make, and after the salaam?Listen to these quick sighings and their wisdom.?All the world has spied on us and seen our love,?And in four days or five days will be whispering evil.?Knot your robes in a turban, escape and be mine for ever;?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me.?After that we will both of us go to prison.?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me;?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me.
My quick sighings carry a tender promise;?I will have time to remember in the battle,?Though all the world is a thousand whistling swords against me. The iron is still in the rock that shall forge my death-sword, Though I have foes more than the stars?Of a thousand valley starlights.?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me;?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me.
I am as strong as Sikander, I am as strong as death;?You will hear me come with guns brooding behind me,?And laughing bloody battalions following after.?Isa Gal is stronger than God;?Do not whip me, do not whip me,?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me;?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me.?Breathing idol of rose ivory, look at me;?Beauty with the flame shawl, do not repulse me.
_From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century)._
ANNAM
THE BAMBOO GARDEN
Old bamboos are about my house,?And the floor of my house is untidy with old books.?It is sweet to rest in the shade of it?And read the poems of the masters.
But I remember a delightful fisherman?Who played on the five-stringed dan in the evening.?In the day he allowed his reed canoe to float?Over the lakes and rivers,?Watching his nets and singing.
A sweet boy promised to marry me,?But he went away and left?Like a reed canoe that rolls adrift?In the middle of a