This has a line that the Hindi music lovers would recognise:
terii aankhoN ke sivaa duniyaa meN rakhaa kyaa hai?
A tip of the hat to Faiz by Sahir (Sahir has many responses to Faiz, including the famous one to subah-e-Azadi, with woh subah kabhi to aayegi).
This is the first overt instance of Faiz subverting traditional Urdu love oetry to “poetry with purpose”, poetry with social conscience pursuing social causes. And Faiz makes his intentions clear with a Persian epigram from Nizami: “Dil-e-bufro-khatm, jaan-e-khareedun” ( “I have sold my heart and bought a soul”).
mujh se pahlī sī mohabbat mirī mahbūb na maañg
maiñ ne samjhā thā ki tū hai to daraḳhshāñ hai hayāt
terā ġham hai to ġham-e-dahr kā jhagḌā kyā hai
terī sūrat se hai aalam meñ bahāroñ ko sabāt
terī āñkhoñ ke sivā duniyā meñ rakkhā kyā hai
tū jo mil jaa.e to taqdīr nigūñ ho jaa.e
yuuñ na thā maiñ ne faqat chāhā thā yuuñ ho jaa.e
aur bhī dukh haiñ zamāne meñ mohabbat ke sivā
rāhateñ aur bhī haiñ vasl kī rāhat ke sivā
an-ginat sadiyoñ ke tārīk bahīmāna tilism
resham o atlas o kamḳhāb meñ bunvā.e hue
jā-ba-jā bikte hue kūcha-o-bāzār meñ jism
ḳhaak meñ luThḌe hue ḳhuun meñ nahlā.e hue
jism nikle hue amrāz ke tannūroñ se
piip bahtī huī galte hue nāsūroñ se
lauT jaatī hai udhar ko bhī nazar kyā kiije
ab bhī dilkash hai tirā husn magar kyā kiije
aur bhī dukh haiñ zamāne meñ mohabbat ke sivā
rāhateñ aur bhī haiñ vasl kī rāhat ke sivā
mujh se pahlī sī mohabbat mirī mahbūb na maañg
Naomi Lazard: Don’t ask me now, Beloved
Don't ask me now, Beloved, to love you as I did
when I believed life owed its luster to your existence.
The torments of the world meant nothing;
you alone could make me suffer.
Your beauty guaranteed the spring,
ordained its enduring green.
Your eyes were all there was of value anywhere.
If I could have you, fate would bow before me.
None of this was real; it was all invented by desire.
The world knows how to deal out pain,
apart from passion, and manna for the heart,
beyond the realm of love.
Warp and woof, the trappings of the rich
are woven by the brutish spell cast over all the ages;
human bodies numbed by filth, deformed by injuries,
cheap merchandise on sale in every street.
I must attend to this too: what can be done?
Your beauty still delights me, but what can I do?
The world knows how to deal out pain,
apart from passion, and manna for the heart,
beyond the realm of love.
Don't ask from me, Beloved,
love like that one long ago.
Victor Kiernen: Love, do not ask
Love, do not ask me for that love again
Once I thought life, because you lived, a prize —
The time's pain nothing, you alone were pain;
Your beauty kept earth's springtimes from decay,
My universe held only your bright eyes —
If I won you, fate would be at my feet.
It was not true, all this, but only wishing;
Our world knows other torments of love,
And other happiness than a fond embrace.
Dark curse of countless ages, savagery
Inwoven with silk and satin and gold lace,
Men's bodies sold in street and marketplace,
Bodies that caked grime fould sand thick blood smears.
Flesh issuing from the cauldrons of disease
With festered sores dripping corruption —
these Sights haunt me too, and will not be shut out;
Not be shut out, though your looks ravish still.
This world knows other torments than of love,
And other happiness than a fond embrace;
Love, do not ask for my old love again.
***
DO NOT ASK FROM ME, MY BELOVED, LOVE LIKE THAT FORMER ONE
Do not ask from me, my beloved, love like that former one.
I had believed that you are, therefore life is shining;
There is anguish over you, so what wrangle is there over the sorrow of the age?
From your aspect springtimes on earth have permanence;
What does the world hold except your eyes?
If you were to become mine, fate would be humbled,
—It was not so, I had only wished that it should be so.
There are other sufferings of the time [world)besides love, There are other pleasures besides the pleasures of union.
The dark beastly spell of countless centuries,
Woven into silk and satin and brocade,
— Bodies sold everywhere in alley and market,
Smeared with dust, washed in blood,
Bodies that have emerged from the ovens of diseases,
Pus flowing from rotten ulcers —
My glance comes back that way too: what is to be done?
Your beauty is still charming, but what is to be done?
There are other sufferings of the time (world) besides love, There are other pleasures besides the pleasures of union;
Do not ask from me, my beloved, love like that former one.
Sarvat Rahman: Don’t ask me now, Beloved
Don’t ask me now, Beloved,
for that love of other days
When I thought since you were,
life would always scintillate
That love’s pain being mine,
the world’s pain I could despise.
That your beauty lastingness to the spring would donate,
That nothing in the world was of worth but your eyes;
Were you to be mine, fate would bow low before me.
It was not so; it was only my wish that it were so;
Other pains exist than those that love brings,
Other joys than those of lovers’ mingling.
Dark fearful talismans, come down the centuries,
Woven in silk and damask and cloth of gold;
Bodies that everywhere in streets are sold
Covered with dust, all their wounds bleeding.
Agha Shahid Ali: Don’t ask me for that love again
That which then was ours, my love,
don't ask me for that love again.
The world then was gold, burnished with light —
and only because of you.
That's what I had believed.
How could one weep for sorrows other than yours?
How could one have any sorrow but the one you gave?
So what were these protests, these rumours of injustice?
A glimpse of your face was evidence of springtime.
The sky, wherever I looked, was nothing but your eyes.
If You'd fall into my arms, Fate would be helpless.
All this I'd thought, all this I'd believed.
But there were other sorrows, comforts other than love.
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention.
I can't help but look back when I return from those alleys —what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing — what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world, comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
Mahmood Jamal: Do not ask of me, my love
Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you.
There was a time when life was bright and young and blooming, and your sorrow was much more than any other pain.
Your beauty gave the spring everlasting youth:
your eyes, yes your eyes were everything,
all else was vain.
While you were mine, I thought, the world was mine.
Though now I know that it was not reality,
that's the way I imagined it to be;
for there are other sorrows in the world than love,
and other pleasures, too
Woven in silk and satin and brocade,
those dark and brutal curses of countless centuries:
bodies bathed in blood, smeared with dust,
sold from market-place to market-place,
bodies risen from the cauldron of disease,
pus dripping from their festering sores —
my eyes must also turn to these.
You’re beautiful still, my love,
but I am helpless too;
for there are other sorrows in the world than love,
and other pleasures too.
Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you!
Shiv K Kumar: Ask me not for that old fervour, my love
Ask me not for that old fervour, my love.
I had then imagined that your love
would spark off my being,
counterpoise the giant agony of the world
that your beauty would bring
every spring to eternal blossom.
And what else was there to cherish but your eyes?
once you were mine would not fate itself bow to me?
I had only willed it all but it was not to be,
for there are sorrows other than heartache,
joys other than love’s rapture.
If there are spells of those dark,
savage, countless centuries
bodies robed in silk, satin and velvet
then aren’t there also bodies
traded down streets and alleyways
bodies smeared in dust, bathed in blood
bodies emerging from ovens of sickness
bodies with pus oozing from chronic sores?
If these images also seize my eye
even though your beauty still enthralls,
it’s because there are sorrows other than heartache,
joys other than love’s rapture
so ask me not for that old fervour, my love.
Daud Kamal: Do Not Ask
Do not ask me For that past love
When I thought you alone illumined this world
And because of you
The griefs of this world did not matter.
I imagined
Your beauty gave permanence to the colours of spring
And your eyes were the only stars in the universe.
I thought If I could only make you mine
Destiny would, forever, be in my hands.
Of course, it was never like this.
This was just a hope, a dream
Now I know There are afflictions
Which have nothing to do with desire
Raptures Which have nothing to do with love.
On the dark loom of centuries
Woven into silk, damask, and gold cloth
Is the oppressive enigma of our lives.
Everywhere — in the alleys and bazaars —
Human flesh is being sold —
Throbbing between layers of dust —
bathed in blood.
The furnace of poverty and disease
disgorges body after body —
Your beauty is still a river of gems but now I know
There are afflictions which have nothing to do with desire Raptures which have nothing to do with love.
My love, do not ask me ...
Juvenilia 