gul huī jaatī hai afsurda sulagtī huī shaam
Evening , numb and smouldering, is being extinguished,
Dhul ke niklegī abhī chashma-e-mahtāb se raat
Soon night will emerge, bathed, from the fountain of the moon,
aur mushtāq nigāhoñ kī sunī jā.egī
And the eyes’ desire will be fulfilled,
aur un hāthoñ se mas hoñge ye tarse hue haat
And these thirsting hands will touch those hands!
un kā āñchal hai ki ruḳhsār ki pairāhan hai
Is it the border of her veil, or cheek, or is it her mantle?
kuchh to hai jis se huī jaatī hai chilman rañgīñ
Something there is by which the curtain is being tinged with colour.
jaane us zulf kī mauhūm ghanī chhāñv meñ
There is no knowing whether in the hazy thick shade of that tress
TimTimātā hai vo āveza abhī tak ki nahīñ
That earring is still twinkling or not.
aaj phir husn-e-dil-ārā kī vahī dhaj hogī
Today again there will be the same style of captivating beauty,
vahī ḳhvābīda sī āñkheñ vahī kājal kī lakīr
Those same as-if-sleeping eye, that line of lampblack
rañg-e-rukHsār pe halkā sā vo ġhāze kā ġhubār
On the colour of the cheek that faint cloud of powder,
sandalī haath pe dhuñdlī sī hinā kī tahrīr
On the sandalwood-coloured hand the misty tracery of henna.
apne afkār kī ash.ār kī duniyā hai yahī
This only is the world of my thoughts, my verses,
jān-e-mazmūñ hai yahī shāhid-e-ma.anī hai yahī
This only is the soul of my meaning, this only is the darling of my intent.

aaj tak surḳh o siyah sadiyoñ ke saa.e ke tale
Down to today, under the shadow of red and black centuries,
aadam o havvā kī aulād pe kyā guzrī hai?
What has befallen the offspring of Adam and Eve?
maut aur ziist kī rozāna saf-ārā.ī meñ
In the daily battle-array of death and life,
ham pe kyā guzregī ajdād pe kyā guzrī hai?
What will befall us, what has befallen our ancestors?
in damakte hue shahroñ kī farāvāñ maḳhlūq
The multitudinous creatures of these glittering cities,
kyuuñ faqat marne kī hasrat meñ jiyā kartī hai
Why do they keep living only in desire of death?
ye hasīñ khet phaTā paḌtā hai jauban jin kaa!
These lovely fields, whose bloom is bursting out,
kis liye in meñ faqat bhuuk ugā kartī hai
Why does only hunger keep growing in them?

ye har ik samt pur-asrār kaḌī dīvāreñ
These harsh walls on every side, full of mysteries,
jal-bujhe jin meñ hazāroñ kī javānī ke charāġh
In which the lamps of the youth of thousands have burned away,
ye har ik gaam pe un ḳhvāboñ kī maqtal-gāheñ
These execution-grounds, at every step , of those dreams
jin ke partav se charāġhāñ haiñ hazāroñ ke dimāġh
By whose radiance the minds of thousands are lamps
ye bhī haiñ aise ka.ī aur bhī mazmūñ hoñge
These also are themes , others also like them there may be.
lekin us shoḳh ke āhista se khulte hue hoñT
But the slowly opening lips of that saucy one!
haa.e us jism ke kambaḳht dil-āvez ḳhutūt
Ah, the cursed alluring lines of that body!

aap hī kahiye kahīñ aise bhī afsūñ hoñge
You yourself say, will there be such sorceries anywhere else?
apnā mauzu-e-suḳhan un ke sivā aur nahīñ
My theme of poetry is nothing else except these,
tab.a-e-shā.er kā vatan un ke sivā aur nahīñ
The native land of the poet’s nature is nothing else except these.

Literal translation above is by Victor Kiernen, as is the poetic one below.

Victor Kiernen

Twilight is burning out and turning chill,
Night comes fresh-bathed from where the moon’s spring flows;
And now—these eager eyes shall have their will,
These avid fingers feel the touch of those!
Is that her fringed veil, is it her face, her dress,
Behind the hanging gauze, that makes it glow—
And in the vague mist of that rippling tress
Does the bright earring twinkle still, or no?
Subtly once more her loveliness will speak,
Those pencilled lids, those languorous eyes, again;
Dusted with that faint powder, her pink cheek,
On her pale hand the henna’s delicate stain.
Here is the chosen world of rhyme and dream
My muse inhabits, here her darling theme!
—Under the black and blood-red murk of ages
How has it fared with Eve’s sons all these years?
How shall we fare, where daily combat rages
Of death with life? how fared our forefathers?
Why must those gay streets’ swarming progeny
So draw breath that to die is all they crave?
In those rich fields bursting with bounty, why
Must no ripe harvest except hunger wave?
Walls dark with secrets frown on every side,
That countless lamps of youth have sunk behind;
Everywhere scaffolds on which dreams have died
That lit unnumbered candles in man’s mind.
—These too are subjects; more there are;—but oh,
Those limbs that curve so fatally ravishingly!
Oh that sweet wretch, those lips parting so slow—
Tell me where else such witchery could be!
No other theme will ever fit my rhyme;
Nowhere but here is poetry’s native clime.