bahār aa.ī to jaise yak-bār
lauT aa.e haiñ phir adam se
vo ḳhvāb saare shabāb saare
jo tere hoñToñ pe mar-miTe the
jo miT ke har baar phir jiye the
nikhar ga.e haiñ gulāb saare
jo terī yādoñ se mushkbū haiñ
jo tere ushshāq kā lahū haiñ
ubal paḌe haiñ azaab saare
malāl-e-ahvāl-e-dostāñ bhī
ḳhumār-e-āġhosh-e-mah-vashāñ bhī
ġhubār-e-ḳhātir ke baab saare
tire hamāre
savāl saare javāb saare
bahār aa.ī to khul ga.e haiñ
na.e sire se hisāb saare
बहार आई तो जैसे यकबार
लौट आए हैं फिर अदम से
वो ख़्वाब सारे शबाब सारे
जो तेरे होंटों पे मर मिटे थे
जो मिट के हर बार फिर जिये थे
निखर गए हैं गुलाब सारे
जो तेरी यादों में मुश्कबू हैं
जो तेरे उश्शाक़ का लहू हैं
उबल पड़े हैं अज़ाब सारे
मलाल ए अहवाल दोस्तां भी
ख़ुमार ए आग़ोश ए महवशां भी
ग़ुबार ए ख़ातिर के बाब सारे
तेरे हमारे
सवाल सारे जवाब सारे
बहार आई तो खिल गए हैं
नए सिरे से हिसाब सारे
lauT aa.e haiñ phir adam se
those that are the lifeblood of your lovers
all the torments have boiled over
the anguish and apprehensions about friends
the intoxication of warm embraces
in the beauty of the moon
in our dust of memories
all the questions, all the answers
have opened up again, with spring
all the old accounts anew
So my literal, almost word-by-word clunky translation with words looked up in the dictionary goes something like this:
Spring is here as if suddenly
the lifeblood of your lovers
all the torments have boiled over
the anguish and apprehensions about friends
the intoxication of warm embraces
in the beauty of the moon
in this dust of memories
all the questions, all the answers
have opened up again, with spring
all the old accounts anew
(Hurried translation draft by SD)
Agha Shahid Ali takes liberties and transcreates this as follows:
It Is Spring, Again
It is spring, And the ledger is opened again.
From the abyss where they were frozen,
those days suddenly return, those days
that passed away from your lips, that died
with all our kisses, unaccounted.
The roses return: they are your fragrance;
they are the blood of your lovers.
Sorrow returns. I go through my pain
and the agony of friends still lost in the memory
of moon-silver arms, the caresses of vanished women.
I go through page after page. There are no answers,
and spring has come once again asking
the same questions, reopening account after account.
Juvenilia 