Ghani

Who gave to India this yearning for freedom? Who gave the quarry this passion to be the hunter?

Those scions of Brahmins, with vibrant hearts, whose glowing cheeks put the red tulip to shame—

keen of eye, mature and strenuous in action whose very glance puts Europe into commotion.

Their origin is from this protesting soil of ours, the rising place of these stars is our Kashmir.

If you suppose our earth is without a spark, cast a glance for a moment within your heart;

whence comes all this ardour you possess, whence comes this breath of the breeze of spring?

It is from the selfsame wind’s influence that our mountains derive their colour and scent.

Do you not know what one day a wave said to another wave in Lake Wular?

‘How long shall we strike at each other in this sea? Rise up, let us break together against the shore.

Our child, that is to say, yon ancient river fills with its roar valley and mountains and meadow;

continually it smites the rocks on its path until it uproots the fabric of the mountains.

That youth who seized cities, deserts and plains took his nurture from the milk of a hundred mothers;

its majesty strikes terror into mortal hearts; all this is from us, not from any other.

To live in the bounds of the shore is a sin; our shore is but a stone in our path.

To accommodate oneself to the shore is eternal death, even though you roll in the sea morning and evening;

life is to leap amidst mountain and desert— happy is the wave that has transgressed the shore!’

You who have read the lines on the brow of Life, you who have given to the East the tumult of Life,

you who have a sigh that consumes the heart, stirring you to restlessness, and us still more,

from you the birds in the meadow learned their threnody, in your tears the grasses make ablution;

out of your genius the field of roses blossomed, out of your hope many souls are filled with hope.

Your cry is a bell urging the caravans; why then do you despair of the dwellers in the Vale?

Their hearts are not dead in their breasts, their embers are not extinguished under the ice;

wait till you see, without the sound of the Trumpet, a nation rising out of the dust of the tomb.

Do not grieve then, visionary; breathe out that sigh consuming all, dry and moist alike;

many cities beneath the turquoise heaven have been consumed by the flame of a dervish heart.

Dominion is frailer than a bubble and can be destroyed by a single breath.

The destinies of nations have been shaped by a song, by a song nations are destroyed and rebuilt.

Though your lancet has pierced men’s hearts, none has perceived you as you truly are;

your melody springs from a poet’s song, but what you utter transcends poesy.

Stir up a new tumult in Paradise, strike up an intoxicating air in Paradise!

Zinda-Rud

Habituate yourself to the dervish wine and quaff it continuously; when you become riper, hurl yourself at the dominion of Jamshid.

They said, ‘This world of ours—does it agree with you?’ I said, ‘It does not agree’. They said, ‘Then break it to pieces’.

In the taverns I have seen there is not one worthy adversary; grapple with Rustam-i-Dastan, have done with Magian boys!

Tulip of the wilderness, you cannot burn alone; strike this heart—enflaming brand upon the breast of man;

You are the ardour of his bosom, the heat of his blood— do you not believe me? Then tear apart the flesh of the world.

Is reason your lamp? Set it on the path to shine; or is love your cup? Quaff it with the intimate.

I pour forth from my eyes the bloody gouts of my heart; my ruby of Badakhshan—pick it up, and set it in your ring.