gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho mire hamdam mire dost
gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho ki tire dil kī thakan
tirī āñkhoñ kī udāsī tere siine kī jalan
merī dil-jūī mire pyaar se miT jā.egī
gar mirā harf-e-tasallī vo davā ho jis se
jī uThe phir tirā ujḌā huā be-nūr dimāġh
terī peshānī se Dhal jaa.eñ ye tazlīl ke daaġh
terī bīmār javānī ko shifā ho jaa.e
gar mujhe is kā yaqīñ ho mire hamdam mare dost
roz o shab shaam o sahar maiñ tujhe bahlātā rahūñ
maiñ tujhe giit sunātā rahūñ halke shīrīñ
ābshāroñ ke bahāroñ ke chaman-zāroñ ke giit
āmad-e-sub.h ke, mahtāb ke, sayyāroñ ke giit
tujh se maiñ husn-o-mohabbat kī hikāyāt kahūñ
kaise maġhrūr hasīnāoñ ke barfāb se jism
garm hāthoñ kī harārat meñ pighal jaate haiñ
kaise ik chehre ke Thahre hue mānūs nuqūsh
dekhte dekhte yak-laḳht badal jaate haiñ
kis tarah āriz-e-mahbūb kā shaffāf bilor
yak-ba-yak bāda-e-ahmar se dahak jaatā hai
kaise gulchīñ ke liye jhuktī hai ḳhud shāḳh-e-gulāb
kis tarah raat kā aivān mahak jaatā hai
yūñhī gaatā rahūñ gaatā rahūñ terī ḳhātir
giit buntā rahūñ baiThā rahūñ terī ḳhātir
par mire giit tire dukh kā mudāvā hī nahīñ
naġhma jarrāh nahīñ mūnis-o-ġham ḳhvār sahī
giit nashtar to nahīñ marham-e-āzār sahī
tere āzār kā chāra nahīñ nashtar ke sivā
aur ye saffāk masīhā mire qabze meñ nahīñ
is jahāñ ke kisī zī-rūh ke qabze meñ nahīñ
haañ magar tere sivā tere sivā tere sivā

– Faiz Ahmed Faiz

If I were certain of this, my companion, my friend,
If I were certain of this, that the weariness of your heart,
The sadness of your eyes, the burning in your breast,
Would be removed by my sympathy, my affection;
If my words of consolation were that medicine through which
Your desolated, ‘unlit brain would recover itself,
These stains of humiliation be removed from your forehead,
Your sickly youth be cured; –
If I were certain of this, my companion , my friend,
Day and night, evening and daybreak, I would keep entertaining
you. ,
I would keep singing you songs: gentle and sweet,
Songs of waterfalls, of springtimes, of meadows,
Songs of the advent of dawn, of moonlight, of planets;
I would tell you stories of beauty and love,
Of how the ice-like bodies of proud beauties
Melt in the ardour of warm hands;
How the well-known, familiar features of some face
While we are watching all at once become changed,’
How the transparent crystal of the beloved’s cheek
Suddenly glows with red wine;
How the rose-spray bends of itself for the rose-plucker,
How the hall of night grows perfumed;
-So would I k’eep singing, keep singing, for your sake,
I would go on sitting and weaving songs for your sake.
But my songs are no remedy for your affliction,
Melody is no surgeon, even though consoling and sympathetic,·
A song is no lancet, though it may be a lotion for sickness.
There is no cure for your sickness, except the lancet,
And this butcher-messiah is not in my power,
Is not in the power of any breathing thing in this world,
Except-yes! except yourself, except yourself, except yourself.

– Translated by VG Kiernan, Poems by Faiz