Hindustani Lyrics Part 8

Thou shouldst have given to me the robe and crown And made me king of kings, Or dressed me in the tattered darwesh gown, Poorest of earthly things.

O that I were thy fool to do thy will, Simple and led by thee!

What meaning have my knowledge and my skill, They have no worth to me.

Lo, thou hast made me as the dust that flies Unheeded in the street, O were I that which in her pathway lies, Trodden beneath her feet!

My heart is as it were to fringes shred, Such wounds it had to bear; Would that it were the comb, to touch her head, To tend her perfumed hair!

Long have I known that it was thy design To burn my soul outright; O may at least the happy fate be mine To be the Tavern light!

ZAFAR.

XLIII.

Mine eyes were shut And yet I saw the s.h.i.+ning vision gleam; Now that mine eyes are opened, know I not Was it a thought that held me--or a dream?

Long to myself I said--It will be well, When I can see her, I will tell my pain: Now she is here, what is there left to tell?

No griefs remain.

Faithless she is to me, and pitiless, Despotic and tyrannical she is, I looked for love, I looked for tenderness, I leant on vain impossibilities.

I listened to thy voice that stole to me Across the curtain where thou satst apart, Desire came like a restless ecstasy, A sorcery that fell upon my heart.

When I had burst my prison, and was free, I saw no fetters held me, and I found, O Zafar, that these chains that shackle me Are ties of self wherewith my soul is bound.

ZAFAR.

XLIV.

I care not if no rest nor peace remain, I have my cherished pain, I have my rankling love that knows no end, And need no other friend.

I yearned with all my heart to hold her fast, She laughed, and fled, and pa.s.sed!

Lakhs of enchantments, scores of spells I wove, But useless was my love.

I would have given my life to make her stay, She went away, away, she went away.

Though I effaced myself in deed and thought And brought myself to naught, The dark and sundering curtain hangs between I cannot pierce the screen.

And still I know behind the veil she hides, And naught besides In all this changing Universe abides!

ZAFAR.

XLV.

That I should find her after weary years, And that mine eyes should keep from happy tears,-- That is not possible, this is not possible.

If she should come after these many days, And if my wondering eyes forget to gaze-- That is not possible, this is not possible.

Sometimes I long to kiss my idol's face, Sometimes to clasp her in my wild embrace-- That is not possible, this is not possible.

How can I let her seek my rival's door, How can I bear the friends I loved before-- That is not possible, this is not possible.

O Zafar, does she bid me to return, And dare I, for I tremble and I burn-- That is not possible, this is not possible.

ZAFAR.

XLVI.

Whence did the yearning of the soul arise, The longing to attain the Heavenly Sight?

Before what mortal eyes Was manifested the Eternal Light?

When the soul understands and wakes to find Thou hast within the heart of man Thy throne, It sees how arrogant and blind The self that but its mortal self hath known.

Thou and I also were the seer and seen, When none beside existed. Thou and I Have Lover and Beloved been Before this era of mortality.

How strange the turns in Love's unending game, For neither Lover nor Beloved lit The ever-burning flame: Whence was the spirit that enkindled it?

The road that leads where pious pilgrims bow In Kaaba or in Temple, Thou hast laid; And first of all wert Thou To tread the road that thou Thyself hadst made.

ZAHIR.

XLVII.

Thy beauty flashes like a sword Serene and keen and merciless; But great as is thy cruelty, Even greater is thy loveliness.

It is the gift of G.o.d to thee This beauty rare and exquisite; Why dost thou hide it thus from me, I shall not steal nor sully it.

And as thy beauty s.h.i.+nes, in Heaven There climbs upon its path of fire The star that lights my rival's way, And with it mounts his heart's desire.

Even in thy house is jealousy, Thy youth demands the lover's praise Over thy beauty, which itself Is jealous of thy gracious ways.

I died with joy when winningly I heard the Well-Beloved call-- Zahir, where is my beauty gone, Thou must have robbed me after all.