آڈیوز
یہ صفحہ صرف صداکار سارنگ صیرفیان کی دستیاب آڈیوز دکھاتا ہے۔
‘Tis a time since the passion for idols was my faith: The pain of this work, the joy of the sorrowful heart of mine is.
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Such a one am I that the tavern-corner is the cloister of mine: The prayer from the Pir of Moghan is the morning task of mine.
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From weeping, the pupil of my eye seated in blood is, Behold the state of men in search of Thee, how it is.
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The curve of Thy tress is the snare of infidelity and of Faith: This matter is a little from His work-shop.
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The heart is the chamber of love of His: The eye is the mirror-holder of the form of His.
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This blackish one, all the sweetness of the world is with him. The fair eye, the laughing lip, the joyous heart is with Him.
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The head of our desire, and the threshold of the Mighty Friend: For, whatever passeth over our head is His will.
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Of a great favor from the threshold of the Friend, hope mine is; A great sin I have done; of His pardon hope mine, is.
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That envoy, who arrived from the country of the Friend; And brought the amulet of life from the dark writing of the Friend.
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O Breeze! If thy path should chance by the Land of the Friend. Bring a fragrant waft of air from the beperfumed tress of the Friend.
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Welcome! O Messenger of the Longing Ones, give the message of the Friend. That, with the essence of pleasure, I may make my soul a sacrifice for the Friend.
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Thy face, none hath seen; and a thousand watchers are Thine, Still in the rosebud, Thine many a nightingale is.
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More pleasant than the pleasure and the enjoyment of the garden and the spring is what? Where is the Said? Say: “The cause of our waiting is what?”
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O nightingale! bewail if, the desire of being a lover with me, thine is. For, we two are, weeping lovers; and our work, weeping is.
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O Lord! that candle, night-illuminating, from the house of whom is? Our soul hath consumed. Ask ye, saying: “She, the beloved, of whom is?”
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From the city, my moon went this week; to my eye a year it is: The state of separation what knowest thou how difficult the state is?
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A gazer, save upon Thy face, the pupil of our eye is not. A remembrancer save of Thee, our overturned heart is not.
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The Zahed, outward worshipper! Of our state, knowledge is none. In respect of us, whatever he saith, room for abhorrence is none.
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Love’s path is Path whereof the shore is none: And there, unless they surrender their soul, remedy is none.
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From the ray of Thy face, luminous a glance is not. that is not: The favor of the dust of Thy door, on an eye is not, that is not.
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The produce of the workshop of existence and dwelling all this is naught; Bring wine. For the goods of the world all this is naught.
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Save Thy threshold, my shelter in the world is none. Save this door, my fortress-place is none.
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A nightingale had a rose-leaf, pleasant of hue in his beak, And, on that leaf and pleasant food, bitter lamentation held.
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Thou sawest that, save the desire of violence and of tyranny, my beloved aught had not. He shattered the covenant; and, on account of our grief, grief had not.
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Now, that the fragrant breeze of Paradise bloweth from the rose garden. I and the wine, joy-giving and the Beloved angel.
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At dawn, the bird of the sward spake to the rose: “Display less disdain; for, in this garden many a one like thee hath blossomed.”
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That Bold One of Angel-face who, last night, by me passed, What sin saw He that, by way of sin, He passed?
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If from the hand of Thy musky tress, a fault passed, it passed: And, if against us from Thy dark mole, an act of tyranny passed, it passed.
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O Saki! bring wine; for the fasting month hath passed. Give the goblet; for the season of name and fame hath passed.
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From His lip of ruby, a draft we tasted not; and He departed: His face, moon of form, we beheld not to our fill; and He departed.
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Saki! come; for the true Beloved hath taken up the veil, The work of the lamp of the Khilvatis again kindled.
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By concord with darkish beauty, the world Thy beauty took. Yes; by concord, the world one can take.
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I heard a pleasant speech that the old man of Kan’an uttered: “Separation from the true Beloved maketh not that which can be uttered.”
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O Lord! devise a means, whereby in safety my Beloved May come back, and release me from the claw of reproach.
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O lapwing of the east wind! to Saba, I send thee: Behold from where to where, I send thee!
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O hidden from sight! to God, I entrust, thee. Thou consumedest my soul; yet with heart, friend I hold thee.
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What kindness it was when, suddenly, the dropping of thy pen Represented the obligations of our service according to the goodness of thee.
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On account of that heart-cherishing beloved, thanks with complaint are mine: If thou be a subtlety-understander of love list well to this tale.
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Ever intoxicated keepeth me the waft of air of the tress-curl of Thine. Momently ruined maketh me the deceit of the eye of sorcery of Thine.
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My heart, in desire of the face of Farrukh, Is in confusion like the hair of Farrukh.
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Yesterday, the Pir, the wine-seller whose mention be for good! Said: “Drink wine; and, from recollection, take the heart’s grief.”
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Wine and hidden pleasure, what are they? Baseless work. On the ranks of profligates we dashed. What is fit to be-be!
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Last night, the news of the beloved, journey-made, gave the wind: To the wind, I also give my heart. Whatever it be-be.
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The day of union of friends remember: Those times, remember, remember!
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