His advice to me: Don’t be in so much of a rush. Be easier on yourself. Comparing yourself to what others are doing is a waste of time. He also adds an old Chinese saying – A big construction is always completed late.
I know it’s cliche,
but that’s the world’s way.
Sitting here in this dark cafe,
you are my dreams’ brilliant ray.
Because of you I wanna say,
Happy Valentine’s Day!
“Anyone who knows God cannot describe Him. Anyone who can describe God does not know Him.” – Paulo Coelho
While I was fighting, I heard other people speaking in the name of freedom, and the more they defended this unique right, the more enslaved they seemed to be to their parents’ wishes, to a marriage in which they had promised to stay with the other person “for the rest of their lives,” to the bathroom scales, to their diet, to half-finished projects, to lovers to whom they were incapable of saying “No” or “It’s over,” to weekends when they were obliged to have lunch with people they didn’t even like. Slaves to luxury, to the appearance of luxury, to the appearance of the appearance of luxury. Slaves to a life they had not chosen, but which they had decided to live because someone had managed to convince them that it was all for the best.
– Paulo Coelho. the Zahir (p. 9)
I translated this poem in my freshman year for my English class:
This is a world of miracles for you.
But for me, this is the world of coincidences.
The world of fantasies is poor,
But poorer is the world of birth and death.
It is no wonder that your sight will change everything,
The world of possibilities is calling you.
Mirza Ghalib was the one of greatest poet in the Indian history. I translated this back in my college days.
I look at the joys of the world, as I look at the dust.
Crying used to give me peace but now even my eyes have run dried.
When I am dead, wind might take my dust to my destination.
Because now I have no more willpower to keep going.
For whom are these preparations of welcome, who is this lover from the heaven?
All I see is flowers, and nothing else.
My love has left me capable of nothing.
Now I just wish to live quietly somewhere.
Asad, my poetry is for times past.
It is useless to write, when no one understands.
Feeling so empty, and hallow inside
Cannot believe I am writing a poem to a cigarette
but I feel so unsatisfied, unfulfilled
like this poem, half-finished.
This poem was written by my favorite poet Alama Iqbal. I translated it for a class during my freshman year.
“The view up here is the same as ever.
We are tired of shining and shining.
Our work is to walk, day and night.
Walk and walk and walk forever.
Everything in this universe is anxious.
Peace, whatever it is, does not exist.
Everything is being tortured by time.
Stars, man, trees, rocks, Everything.
Will this journey ever end?
Will we ever see our destination?”
“My friends,” replied the moon,
“O travelers in the field of the night.
Life happens because of the movement.
This is the old culture of this universe.
Time’s horse flies.
Because it is hit by the lash of desires.
On this path, it is not possible to stop.
Because death is hidden within rest.
Those who strived have left us behind.
And those who slept are crushed.
The end of this journey is true beauty.
It begins with true love and ends with true beauty.”
You are neither for this earth nor for that sky.
The world is for you; you are not for the world.
This garden is the place for pain and prayer.
Not for picking flowers or for building a nest.
How long will you stay in the Ravi, Nile, and Farat?
Your ship was built for endless oceans.
It was nothing, what we have made it.
We made it more, just for our fantasies.
In this hot desert heat
you were a cool breeze
gone in a moment just as you came
leaving me behind to wonder if you will ever return
to mess up my hair
to touch my thirsty lips softly
you were a sweet dream
vanished with the stars in the morning
leaving me to wake up in the blinding sunlight
to look for a shade where there are no trees
you were a beautiful song
which I cannot hear anymore in this noise
I tried dancing to you
but there was no floor
a wish which cannot be fulfilled, a desire which will never die
my hope was in vain but I held on to it.
you were a magic happened in a blink of an eye
just as a shooting star disappears in the night sky
you were a poem written with an ink
on paper left in the rain, washed away before I could read.
A sad poem by Mir Taqi:
Stop crying, this is just the beginning of love.
Hold on and see what will be next.
In the morning, there were voices in the caravan.
Let’s move on and let the sleeper sleep.
On this ground nothing can grow.
Please stop planting seeds of wishes in your heart.
These are marks of true love, they remain forever.
It is not possible to wash them away from your heart.
Time was more important than anything else in my life.
And Mir, I wasted my time foolishly.
This is an old school project. I translated one of my favorite poem from Urdu.
Poem by Mir Dard
It was a school or temple, or was it Makkah or church.
We were all guests, only you were the host.
Oh! How sad it is. I found just before death.
It was only a dream, what I saw. It was only a fairy tale, what I heard.
How sad it is that autumn is in the garden.
There was some grass, which was my friend.
This place is getting chaotic with all these people entering and leaving.
My heart used to be the place for your peace.
It is useless to remember them, try to be happy.
Dard, it is not important if they remember me or not.
As I turn back, my eyes dampen
When I realized my incomplete life
My life became clear to me
Seek time’s tender shade
Yesterday too, was in ruins
Now is deserted as well
Life asks for a moment of support
Won’t let me sleep due to grief
Won’t let me live.
This is one of my favorite poem. It was written in Urdu. I translated it for my English class in college.
O my friend, a heart needs no hate.
Everyone loves good but do not even hate bad.
Who does not want the softness of flowers?
But do not be afraid of sharpness of thorns.
There is same blood in the veins of the thorn.
It is brought up by same evening breeze of the spring.
Do not throw away dying flowers.
Yesterday, they were the beauties of the garden.
Once they were also part of the world of scents.
O passerby! Do not kick dust on their leaves.
Though they are no longer in the party.
They were raised in the laps of the morning breeze.
Living or not living, all are basically one.
Earth and heavens, both were made from one.
There are millions of idol, but God is one.
All hearts are different, but feeling is one.
They sell same clothes, but shops are different.
The meanings are the same, but the languages are different.
The lightkeeper is also human.
And the one who is lost in the dark sea is also human.
The best friend is also human.
And the worst enemy is also human.
It doesn’t matter if you run away from death or life.
But, O Human! Never run away from humans.