Sunday, 18 June 2017

Ghalib's ghazal 126

My severed tongue had served to second hers berating my butchered heart as dross
In Hurt's howl, how assay the elegiac, or in Suicide, foul, Art as Loss?
That she heavier scowl, my head spins like an owl
Into fight's ring, flyte's towel to toss

To my despair divide, whomsoever I draw
So defamed for consuming it raw
 A tongue of fire, Grief must sire
 Or burn up Love in its craw!

Hearing the Heavens thunder over its natal heath
 Only the caged bird can attest
How, as forked as Fate's Lightning sheath
Longing obliterates its nest




See F.W. Pritchett's site for detailed commentary here.
kisī ko de ke dil koʾī navā-sanj-e fiġhāñ kyūñ ho
nah ho jab dil hī sīne meñ to phir muñh meñ zabāñ kyūñ ho

vuh apnī ḳhū nah chhoṛeñge ham apnī vaẓʿa kyūñ chhoṛeñ
subuk-sar ban ke kyā pūchheñ kih ham se sar-girāñ kyūñ ho

kiyā ġham-ḳhvārī ne rusvā lage āg is muḥabbat ko
nah lāve tāb jo ġham kī vuh merā rāz-dāñ kyūñ ho

qafas meñ mujh se rūdād-e chaman kahte nah ḍar hamdam
girī hai jis pah kal bijlī vuh merā āshiyāñ kyūñ ho


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