About Grief - 7

About Grief - 7
Photo by Rainhard Wiesinger / Unsplash

Before you begin. Put this on.

Tasveer-e-Dard (The Portrait of Anguish) from Bang-e-Dara

My favorite couplet since I was 15 years old.

My story is not indebted to the patience of being heard
My silence is my talk, my speechlessness is my speech

Why does this custom of silencing exist in your assembly?
My tongue is tantalized to talk in this assembly

Some leaves were picked up by the tulip, some by the narcissus, some by the rose
My story is scattered around everywhere in the garden

The turtle‐doves, parrots, and nightingales pilfered away
The garden’s denizens jointly robbed away my plaintive way

O Candle! Drip like tears from the eye of the moth
Head to foot pathos I am, full of longing is my story

O God! What is the pleasure of living so in this world?
Neither the eternal life, nor the sudden death is mine

This is not only my wailing, but is that of the entire garden
I am a rose, to me every rose’ autumn is my autumn

"In this grief‐stricken land, in life‐long spell of the caravan’s bell I am
From the palpitating heart’s bounties the silent clamor I have"

In the world’s garden unaware of pleasant company I am
Whom happiness still mourns, that hapless person I am

Speech itself sheds tears at my ill luck
Silent word, longing for an eager ear I am

I am a mere handful of scattered dust but I do not know
Whether Alexander or a mirror or just dust and scum I am

Despite all this my existence is the Divine Purpose
Embodiment of light is whose reality, that darkness I am


I will surely exhibit all my hidden wounds today
I will surely change assembly to a garden with blood‐mixed tears

I have to light every heart’s candle with hidden pathos
I will surely create bright illumination in your darkness

So that love‐cognizant hearts be created like rose‐buds
I will surely scatter around my handful of dust in the garden

If stringing these scattered pearls in a single rosary
Is difficult, I will surely make this difficult task easy

O Companion! Leave me alone in the soul-searching effort
As I will surely exhibit this mark of the ardent Love


The heart gets complete illumination by the spark of Love
The Tur’s flower bed is raised from the Love’s small seed

Every malady’s cure is to remain wounded with Longing’s sword
Wound’s remedy is to remain free from obligation to stitching

With the Bekhudi’s wine up to the celestial world is my flight
From disappearance of color I have learnt to remain fragrance

How can the weeping eye refrain from homeland’s lamentation?
The worship for the poet’s eye is to remain constantly with ablution

To what purpose should we make our nest in the rose‐branch
Ah! How can we live with constant disgrace in the garden


Love is the only stage which is the stage as well as the wilderness
It is the bell, the caravan, the leader as well as the robber

Everybody calls it an illness, but it is such an illness
In which the cure for all ills and misfortunes is concealed

The heart’s pathos in a way is to become embodiment of Light
If this moth burns it is also the assembly’s candle

The Beauty is just one but appears in everything
It is Shirin, the sky, as well as the mountain digger

Distinction of sects and governments has destroyed nations
Is there any concern for the homeland in my compatriot’s hearts?

Prolonging the tale of my woes calls for silence, otherwise
The tongue in my mouth as well as the ability to speak is

"Take not this meaningful tale as related by me is
The story was endless, but related with silence is"

A beautiful portrayal!