Poems by Ayub Khawar / Translated by Muhammad Shanazar

Poems by Ayub Khawar
 
 
The Heart Of Dream Be Revealed
 
Let the heart of dream be revealed,
Just as drunkenness reveals upon
The quivering lashes of the eyes sunken in love,
As in the shut books,
Possibility of a rose to bloom reveals,
As to the finger-tips, reveals taste
Of the virgin touch of love.
 
Let the heart of dream be revealed,
So that I could see
The drunkenness of the unrevealed puberty,
The same bewilderment which I wished
To string just for once on the thread of breath,
The same indecision
To which the innocent half opened eyes
Bequeathed a trust,
And fragrance of rose and jasmine.
 
The core of heart imprinted,
Sans voice and sans word,
The feel of imperceptible smile
On your throbbing rosy lips;
Then to my eyes you awakened like dawn.
 
O! The beauty with speaking eyes
You are the soul of poesy,
Time penned several episodes
Of the bygone age,
And the threshold of each chapter is stunned
Like a sealed dream,
There is neither any knock,
Nor any sound,
Nor any breezy word,
Nor any prudence.
Would that before this moment passes,
The heart of this sealed dream should open!
And I may see what the allusion was
Of the tale of your imperceptible smile,
Now,
Being the sinner of love
What compensation for the injury
I shall have to recompense.
 
 
 
A Frozen Moment of Farewell
 
As soon as I opened the door,
What I beheld,
Everything in the room lay
As when and where it was,
On corner of the dressing table,
The lid of safety pin-box was lying
As it was before,
In the spines of hair-brush were entangled
Some strands of hair,
The vial of scent was lidless,
And inside the purse
Our combined photo was lying prostrate on it,
A pair of my sandals was lying,
Prostrate too behind the door of balcony,
My watch and your bracelet,
Fell flat from underneath the cushion,
On the sitter made of cane,
A piece of your green anchal hung
On the hook of my belt,
The bed-sheet and cushions muddled
With one another sinking into
The desert of deep sleep.
 
Before departure,
The spectacle you froze,
While opening the door I included myself.
Would that you make your sudden sojourn,
To resonate the suspended chords,
So that the frozen spectacle,
At least should breathe.
 
 
 
A Day On The Caucasus Till The Next Morn
 
How I have escaped
From the illusions of her lips!
On her grayish eyebrows
Were throbs of the untold mystery,
In the depth of her eyes
Blossomed pleasures of seven colours,
On the right cheek of her was a reverent
Demand of a kiss in the contracted mole.
 
In the waves of wind,
Coming from the half open window,
The wild dance of the soft curly black locks,
Pulsation of touches
Rustling in the pores of delicate fingers,
No one knows how much implicit
Infusing in my impatient heart,
The brown haired enchantress of Caucasus bound me
From each and every angle
In her unspoken miraculous elegance,
And I found myself molten in fragrance
Of her soul, sound and structure,
Each drop of the touch of her silence
Kept quenching my thirsty throat,
Ran into my streams of blood.
 
When the rustling, moonlit-night,
Cling to the nude golden body
Of the day,
I don’t remember.
How many centuries I’ve spent,
I know not.
I’m still mesmerized how I have escaped
From the illusions of her lips!
 
 
 
A Discourse With A Mirror
 
What have you whispered that the wind blushes
In the colour of (1)gulal,
Listen a while!
This reaction is of whose dream-laden knocks
That all around are adorned mirrors,
Who came and paused
Beside beats of the heart.
What happened that the colour
Of my eye-sight has changed?
What have you whispered?
That I forgot my own entity
 
I was asleep when your voice
Made me awake from the deep slumber.
How did you manage
The meeting with my own self?
What happened?
Where have led us these matters
Of eyes and hearts?
What happened?
Why has the sparkle of my giggles
Spread over the sphere?
Where ever I place my steps
Nothing is there
But the colours of spring.
Who has overshadowed my heart
Like a springtide,
In this hide and seek of light and shade
In the velvety green sphere,
What have you whispered that the wind blushes?
In the colour of gulal.
 
(1)Gulal: colour of rose
All rights are reserved
 
 
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
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