تراجم
یہ صفحہ صرف ایم ہادی حسین کے دستیاب تراجم والی نظمیں دکھاتا ہے۔
ایم ہادی حسین کے تراجم میں علامہ اقبال کی کتاب پیام مشرق
Dedicatory Epistle to King Amanullah Khan of Afghanistan
My heart is bright with burning inwardly, mine eye weeps blood, yet all the world does see;
Love gives the garden the soft breeze of May, Love lights the star-buds in the meadow gay.
Love reckoneth the price of eagles cheap, and giveth pheasants to the falcons’ grip.
’Tis Love that paints the tulip petals’ hue: ’Tis Love that stirs the spirit’s bitter rue.
Not every soul of Love hath capital, not every spirit respondeth to Love’s call.
A spent scent in the garden I suspire, I know not what I seek, what I require.
To the voice of love Adam is music; he reveals secrets, but he is a secret himself.
I do not seek the beginning or the end; I am full of mystery and seek the realm of mysteries.
O ask not what I am, or whence came I: ’Tis self-involvement I am living by:
Swift-paced thou hast departed, star of dawn! Perchance disgusted that we slumbered on:
The tavern were exempt of turbulence, no spark illumed our clay’s indifference.
What joy it is, O God, to be, just be! Each atom’s heart feels this joy gratefully.
O heart, my heart, unto His street thou’rt gone! O heart, my heart, thou leavest me alone;
A stranger to your own identity, you seek new paths to the stars in the sky.
One morning in a garden, passing by, I heard a bird perched on a high branch cry:
To make you understand life’s mystery, I tell you one thing in all secrecy:
Do not tell me about that silly moth who met an easy, suicidal death.
I do not sell the stuff that generates forgetfulness and that inebriates.
Do not come to my garden if you have an uninquiring mind, which does not crave.
From being and non-being’s whirlpool free yourself; in this world of contingency.
The garden songsters’ chorus I, for one, do not join, but sing on my branch alone.
A wonderful show, God, is Your world; all things seem to have drunk from the same wine-bowl.
Sikandar said to Khizar aptly: ‘Dive into the stormy sea of life and strive against the waves.
The throne of Kaikobad and Jamshid’s crown, Church, temple, Kaaba – all dust to be thrown on the dust-heap.
If there were set within thy hand of dust a heart, a hundred fragments of warm blood;
Life keeps expressing itself in new ways: Content with one fixed form it never stays.
When the desire to sing aloud grips me, I storm the world with bursts of poesy.
You ask me what is this heart in your breast; it is your intellect that has been blest with feeling.
The intellect says He cannot be seen, but still the eager eye stays caught between hope and fear.
You only built church, temple, idol-house and mosque – all symbols of your slavery.
I never got attached to this world, this fair-seeming garden, and its vanities.
I offer you a strange, new kind of wine, which makes old tipplers sober, sane and wise.
His wine turned my cup into Jamshid’s cup: A sea poured into me, a tiny drop.
To past and present reason is a slave; it worships images of eye and ear.
There is an intellect in every man. My body is, like others’, clay and blood’ just mud.
You went to Mount Sinai, soliciting a sight of God, being a stranger to yourself.
Go and tell this to Gabriel from me: Though not all light like him, I yet aspire to God.
If you seek knowledge, then be of two minds; increase your doubt, decrease your certainty.
Mind wove the veils that cover up Thy face, and ah! Mine eyes thirst upon Thee to gaze.
Your heart quakes with the fear of death: you pale at the mere thought of it.
Why ask, what links my body and my soul? I fall not in the snare of How, How Long:
A wise man said to me: ‘All your todays are earnests of a great tomorrow.
Why ask of Razi what the Quran means? By each man’s own heart is it best construed.
I do not say if I exist or not. To say I do were self-idolatry.
Tell thou for me that poet of bright words: Thou tulip flame, what profit does it bring?
I do not know thy Ugly and thy Fair: Thou takest Gain and Loss to measure by.
Perchance, grave minister, thou knowest not Love too shall have its Judgment after death:
Don’t arrange a party on the shore, for there the song of life is gentle and soft.
I am a hidden meaning which defies the glance of spinners of mere words away.
