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 my eyes have run dried.
When I am dead, wind might take my dust to my destination.
Because now I have no more energy to keep going.
For who are these preparation of welcome, who is this lover from heaven?
All I can see is flowers, nothing else.
My love has left me capable of nothing.
Now I just wish to live peacefully somewhere.
Asad, my poetry is for times past.
It is useless to write, when no one understands.
I was,
And I am.
So shall I be, to the end of time,
For I am without end.
I have cleft the vast spaces of the infinite, and
taken flight in the world of fantasy, and drawn nigh
to the circle of light on high.
Yet behold me a captive of matter.
I have hearkened to the teachings of Confucius,
and listened to the wisdom of Brahma, and sat
beside the Buddha beneath the tree of knowledge.
Behold me now contending with ignorance and
unbelieving.
I was upon Sinai when the Lord showed Himself
to Moses. By the Jordan I beheld the Nazarene’s
miracles. In Medina I heard the words of the
Apostle of Arabia.
Behold me now a prisoner of doubt.
I have seen Babylon’s strength and Egypt’s glory
and the greatness of Greece. My eyes cease not
upon the smallness and poverty of their works.
I have sat with the witch of Endor and the priests
of Assyria and the prophets of Palestine, and I cease
not to chant the truth.
I have learned the wisdom that descended on
India, and gained mastery over poetry that welled
from the Arabian’s heart, and hearkened to the
music of people from the West.
Yet am I blind and see not; my ears are stopped
and I do not hear.
I have borne the harshness of unsatiable
conquerors, and felt the oppression of tyrants and the
bondage of the powerful.
Yet am I strong to do battle with the days.
All this have I heard and seen, and I am yet a
child. In truth shall I hear and see the deeds of
youth, and grow old and attain perfection and
return to God.
I was,
And I am.
So shall I be, to the end of time,
For I am without end.
This poem was written by my Favorite poet Alama Iqbal. I translated it for a class during my freshman year at HCCC.
“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 struggled 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 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 the presence of the Beloved, a Lover recalled his ordeals:
“For you, I suffered all horrors in a long war.
Wealth has gone, and strength, and reputation;
because of my love
For you, many, many miseries have attacked me.
Not one dawn found me laughing, not one evening calm.”
Everything that he had tasted of desolation and despair
The Lover told his Beloved, detail by detail, point by point.
And not from revenge at all: he was only offering
A hunderd clear testimonies to the reality of his passion.
The Beloved replied, “Yes, you did suffer all those things.
But open your eyes wide now, and listen very carefully:
You have not accomplished at all what is the root of the root
Of love and fidelity; what you have done is only the branches.”
The Lover cried out: “Tell me, then, what is this root?”
Beloved replied: “to die to yourself and to be anihilated.”
“You did all the rest, ” Beloved added, “but still you are not dead.”
At once the Lover prostrated himself and gave up his soul.
Like the rose, he gave up his life, laughing and rejoicing,
And this laughter stayed with him, like a gift, for eternity.
—from Andrew Harvey’s book: Light upon Light
