tum aa.e ho na shab-e-intizār guzrī hai
talāsh meñ hai sahar baar baar guzrī hai

junūñ meñ jitnī bhī guzrī ba-kār guzrī hai
agarche dil pe ḳharābī hazār guzrī hai

huī hai hazrat-e-nāseh se guftugū jis shab
vo shab zarūr sar-e-kū-e-yār guzrī hai

vo baat saare fasāne meñ jis kā zikr na thā
vo baat un ko bahut nā-gavār guzrī hai

na gul khile haiñ na un se mile na mai pī hai
ajiib rañg meñ ab ke bahār guzrī hai

chaman pe ġhārat-e-gul-chīñ se jaane kyā guzrī
qafas se aaj sabā be-qarār guzrī hai

Agha Shahid Ali:

kab yaad meñ terā saath nahīñ kab haat meñ terā haat nahīñ
sad-shukr ki apnī rātoñ meñ ab hijr kī koī raat nahīñ

mushkil haiñ agar hālāt vahāñ dil bech aa.eñ jaañ de aa.eñ
dil vaalo kūcha-e-jānāñ meñ kyā aise bhī hālāt nahīñ

jis dhaj se koī maqtal meñ gayā vo shaan salāmat rahtī hai
ye jaan to aanī jaanī hai is jaañ kī to koī baat nahīñ

maidān-e-vafā darbār nahīñ yaañ nām-o-nasab kī pūchh kahāñ
āshiq to kisī kā naam nahīñ kuchh ishq kisī kī zaat nahīñ

gar baazī ishq kī baazī hai jo chāho lagā do Dar kaisā
gar jiit ga.e to kyā kahnā haare bhī to baazī maat nahīñ

1978. Bhutto has been ousted. Zia-ul-Haq has taken over. Faiz is in exile again. And there is a Ghalib sh’r too, towards the end:

kahūñ kis se maiñ kih kyā hai shab-e ġham burī balā hai 
mujhe kyā burā thā marnā agar ek bār hotā

mire dil, mire musāfir
huā phir se hukm sādir
ki vatan-badar hoñ ham tum
deñ galī galī sadā.eñ
kareñ ruḳh nagar nagar, kā
ki surāġh koī paa.eñ
kisī yār-e-nāma-bar kā
har ik ajnabī se pūchheñ
jo patā thā apne ghar kā
sar-e-kū-e-nā-shanāyāñ
hameñ din se raat karnā
kabhī is se baat karnā
kabhī us se baat karnā
tumheñ kyā kahūñ ki kyā hai
shab-e-ġham burī balā hai
hameñ ye bhī thā ġhanīmat
jo koī shumār hotā
hameñ kyā burā thā marnā
agar ek baar hotā

My heart, my fellow traveller
It has been decreed again
That you and I be exiled, 
go calling out in every street, 
turn to every town.
To search for a clue
of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger
the way back to our home.

In this town of unfamiliar folk
we drudge the day into the night
Talk to this stranger at times, 
to that one at others.

How can I convey to you, my friend
how horrible is a night of lonliness *
It would suffice to me
if there were just some count
I would gladly welcome death
if it were to come but once.

Satendra Nandan.

The title says it all. This was in 1974. A Pakistani goes to the newly-created Bangladesh.

ham ki Thahre ajnabī itnī mudārātoñ ke ba.ad
phir baneñge āshnā kitnī mulāqātoñ ke ba.ad
kab nazar meñ aa.egī be-dāġh sabze kī bahār
ḳhuun ke dhabbe dhuleñge kitnī barsātoñ ke ba.ad
the bahut bedard lamhe ḳhatm-e-dard-e-ishq ke
thiiñ bahut be-mehr sub.heñ mehrbāñ rātoñ ke ba.ad
dil to chāhā par shikast-e-dil ne mohlat hī na dī
kuchh gile shikve bhī kar lete munājātoñ ke ba.ad
un se jo kahne ga.e the ‘faiz’ jaañ sadqe kiye
an-kahī hī rah ga.ī vo baat sab bātoñ ke ba.ad

Agha Shahid Ali’s Translation:

After those many encounters, that easy intimacy,
. we are strangers now —
After how many meetings will we be that close again?

When will we again see a spring of unstained green?
After how many monsoons will the blood be washed
. from the branches?

So relentless was the end of love, so heartless —
After the nights of tenderness, the dawns were pitiless,
. so pitiless.

And so crushed was the heart that though it wished
. it found no chance —
after the entreaties, after the despair — for us to
. quarrel once again as old friends.

Faiz, what you’d gone to say, ready to offer everything,
. even your life —
those healing words remained unspoken after all else had
. been said.

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 ...