Translation:
Love of you brings news of a world beyond consciousness
and brings the pious to down goblets of wine
Your cheek broke the repentant vows of dozens of ascetic devotees
and nearly had them wearing black
Yearning for you is the sheriff who seizes sultan reason by the hair
and drags him before the Messenger
To die by your sword—is this a goal to which one can strive?
One already dead isn’t inclined to aspire so high
Original:
عشقت خبر ز عالم بيهوشي آورد
اهل صلاح را به قدح نوشي آورد
رخسار تو که توبه صد پارسا شکست
نزديک شد که رو به سيه پوشي آورد
شوق تو شحنه ايست که سلطان عقل را
موي جبين گرفته به چاوشي آورد
مردن به تيغ تو چو به کوشش ميسر است
مرده ست آنکه ميل به کم کوشي آورد
Translation:
Bing a brimming goblet that slides down the throat
and this yearning perhaps will drain from my heart
Don’t speak of repentance or say that wine should slip my mind
May my mind never slough off the jug
What repent of wine? If its taste is made known
angels will descend to its scent like flies
I am in death’s bonds today, Sāqī,
let wine flow through her head and flush her moonlike face
The ascetic tablet of my litanies and prayers is
the shard of a jug down which the wine-script dribbles
Any bead of sweat that drops from a beautiful face
is a disaster, a flood to carry of people’s hearts
With the way we drink our own blood at your door
how can you choke down a single drop of wine?
Happy are the times when I think of you day and night
and my life’s blood slashes here and there from my eyes
Open your veil and shut you lover’s mouths
Khusrau may be sinking fast from their talk
Original:
لبالب آر قدح کز گلو فرود آید
مگر که از دلم این آرزو فرود آید
مگوی تو به که آید فرود می ز سرم
مباد کز سر من این سبو فرود آید
ز می چه توبه که گر ذوق آن کند معلوم
فرشته چون مگس آنجا به بو فرود آید
به بند مردنم امروز، ساقیا، بگذار
که باده از سر آن ماهر و فرود آید
به زهد تخته ورد و دعای من باشد
سفال خم که خط می برو فرود آید
ز بهر بردن دلهای خلق سیل بلاست
هر آن عرق که ز روی نکو فرود آید
بدین صفت که همی خون خوریم بر در تو
ترا چگونه می اندر گلو فرود آید؟
خوش آن زمان که به یاد تو هر شبم تا روز
ز دیده خون جگر سو به سو فرود آید؟
نقاب واکن و لبهای عاشقان دربند
مگر که خسرو ازین گفتگو فرود آید
Translation:
Whoever sees you for one day, forgets this world and the next
Original:
هر کس که ببیندت به یک روز
ملک دو جهان کند فراموش
Translation:
You’ve came back drunk, whose guest were you?
I know you’re sugar, in whose cane field were you?
My absent friend, whose sad heart did you seek?
My Joseph, whose prison were you in?
My madman, by whose alley did you walk?
Whose anxieties did you pique?
Where did you drink wine last night? Whom did you give the goblet to?
In the darkness of night, were you in the spring of life?
Dressed-up and drunk, in whose arms did you sleep?
Who was so lucky? Whose orders did you obey?
Who picked through your curls? Who bit your lips?
With whom did you sit at night? Whose guest were you?
The sweets are all plundered, o heart, what have you done?
At whose table were you the fly?
In whose moaning body were you another soul?
On whose searing wound did you pour the salt?
You don’t have the scent of roses, Khusrau, nor the colour of spring
In whose garden have you been strolling?
Original:
مست آمده اي باز به مهمان که بودي؟
دانم شکري در شکرستان که بودي؟
اي يار جدا مانده، دل تنگ که جستي؟
اي يوسف گم گشته به زندان که بودي؟
ديوانه من بر سر کوي که گذشتي؟
تشويش ده حال پريشان که بودي؟
مي دوش کجا خوردي و ساغر به که دادي؟
در ظلمت شب چشمه حيوان که بودي؟
آراسته و مست در آغوش که خفتي؟
اين بخت کرا بوده، به فرمان که بودي؟
جعدت که گزيده ست، لبت را که گزيده ست؟
پيش که نشستي شب و مهمان که بودي؟
حلوا همه تاراج شد، اي دل، تو چه کردي؟
شهد که چشيدي، مگس خوان که بودي؟
جان دگري در تن نالان که بودي؟
کان نمکي در دل بريان که بودي؟
ني بوي گلي داري و ني رنگ بهاري
خسرو، تو به نظاره بستان که بودي؟
Translation:
If I cannot see her, at least I can think of her, and so be happy;
To light the beggar’s hut no candle is better than moonlight.
Original:
گر جمال یار نبود با خیالش هم خوشم
خانه ٔ درویش را شمعی به از مهتاب نیست
Translation:
My heart is a wanderer in love, may it ever remain so.
My life’s been rendered miserable in love,
may it grow more and more miserable.
Original:
دلم در عاشقی آواره شد آواره تر بادا
تنم از بیدلی بیچاره شد بیچاره تر بادا
Translation:
People think they are alive because they have soul in them,
But I am alive because I have love in myself,
And I’m a martyr due to the beloved’s affliction,
(for, to a lover, nothing is dearer than
the affliction brought forth by the beloved).
Original:
اگر خلق جهان زند بجانند و لكن
من زنده عشقم كه شهيد عم يارم
Translation:
One drunk on you needs no wine,
no doctor has the cure for my pain
Moon don’t rise before my eyes
for with his face, I have no need for you at all
Original:
مست ترا به هيچ ميي احتياج نيست
رنج مرا ز هيچ طبيبي علاج نيست
اي مه، مشو مقابل چشمم که با رخش
ما را به هيچ وجه به تو احتياج نيست
Translation:
Though I weep blood over your boundless cruelty
with my eyelashes I still sweep the dust from your doorstep
You have broken many hearts of glass,
a crime that has turned your unkind heart to stone
No fulfillment with you, no delight for me
Soul bereft, I don’t belong to you or myself
All night ’till dawn your brutality roamed through my heart
“Ah, now you are in my heart” I thought—”In your soul” was the reply
Don’t frown. In those creases of your brow
I see foreshadowed the bow that will destroy the world
Who will rescue me from your tightly pursed mouth
when my purse is shrunk tighter than your lips?
You said, “Khusrau is mine.” What good fortune this is
I mean, just for my name to have crossed your lips
Original:
خون گريم ار چه از ستم بيکران تو
هم خاک روبم از مژه بر آستان تو
بسيار آبگينه دلها شکسته اي
زين جرم سنگ شد دل نامهربان تو
جان رفت و نه وصال توام شد نه عيش خوش
نه من از آن خويش شدم نه از آن تو
در دل که شب جفاي تو مي گشت تا به روز
گفتم که، اي تو، در دل من، گفت، جان تو
ابرو ترش مکن که شود کشته عالمي
زين چاشني که مي نگرم در کمان تو
از تنگي دهان توام دست کي دهد
روزي من چو تنگ تر است از دهان تو
گفتي که خسرو آن من است اين چه دولت است
يعني منم که مي گذرم بر زبان تو
Translation:
Since union with you is not my lot, I try to pass the time
with heart’s blood, writing out your name, in one place, next to mine
Who is Khusrau that tormenting him, you tire your lips?
Please don’t toss out anywhere your insults like this.
Orignal
نيست چون بخت وصالم بهر صبر از خون دل
هر دمي يک جا نويسم نام تو با نام خويش
کيست خسرو تا لب خود رنجه داري در جفاش؟
اين چنين هم جابه جا ضايع مکن دشنام خويش
Translation:
I love you so much, I am overcome with jealousy
if you treat anyone else, as badly as you treated me
Original:
چنانت دوست مي دارم که غيرت مي برد جانم
ز تو بر ديگري گر خود همه بيداد مي آيد
Translation:
My fortunes woke from sleep when you slept with me
You didn’t sleep in my embrace, but in my shining eyes
restlessly you flit about, yet in the sleepless of your friend
you slept like a friend to strike our enemies blind
One night, you recall, we were both in the garden:
I in the brambles and thorns, you sleeping amidst flowers and roses
A cause for celebration! Khusrau perceived you so fully
That you slept all night with him, arms around his neck
Original:
بختم از خواب در آمد چو تو با من خفتی
نه در آغوش که در دیده روشن خفتی
هر دمی گردی و در دیده ناخفته دوست
دوستانه ز پی کوری دشمن خفتی
یاد داری که شبی هر دو به بستان بودیم
من به خار و خس و تو در گل و گلشن خفتی
این چه عید است که خسرو ز تو قدری دریافت
که تو با او همه شب دست به گردن خفتی
Translation:
Luck turned on me when you left my side.
When will you turn like my luck and walk back through the door?
Without the rose of your face, my heart contracts like a bud,
and I fear when it blooms, my shirt will burst.
With patience Khusrau, one can behave with moderation
but I fear I get worse with each passing day.
Original:
بخت برگشت ز من تا تو برفتي ز برم
کي بود باز که چون بخت در آيي ز درم؟
بي گل روي تو چون غنچه دلم تنگ آمد
بيم آن است که بر خويش گريبان بدرم
به صبوري بتوان کرد مداوا، خسرو
بيم آن است که هر روز که آيد بترم
Translation:
Like two dice, your eyes have won my heart and soul
and if you come to gamble, both worlds, by rights, are yours to win
Coming once you carried off a hundred like Khusrau, heart and soul.
Come again like this two or three times, and who will survive?
Original:
منم و دلی و آهی ره تو درون این دل
مرو ایمن اندر این ره که فگار خواهی آمد
به یک آمدن ربودی، دل و دین و جان خسرو
چه شود اگر بدین سان دو سه بار خواهی آمد
Translation:
I, Khusrau, play the game of love with my beloved,
If I win, the beloved’s mine, defeated, I’m beloved’s.
Original:
Khusrau baazi prem ki main khelun pi ke sung,
Jeet gayi to piya moray, haari, pi kay sung.
Translation:
You bring the lips, I’ll bring the heart,
now you have both wine and kabob
Original:
لب از تو و دل ز من، خوشي کن
چون هم مي و هم کباب داري
Translation:
You graciously gave me two kisses, but I passed out from the first
Come let’s start from the beginning, because I’ve lost count
What you declare so publicly, Khusrau is a dream
Where did you doze off to see things like this around you?
Original:
دو بوسم لطف کردي و شدم هم در يکي بيهش
رها کن تا ز سر گيرم که گم کردم شمار خود
به خواب ست اينکه مي گويي به پيش مردمان، خسرو
ترا کو خواب تا ببيني ازينها در کنار خود
Translation:
She speaks in the Turkish tongue, but I don’t know Turkish
How sweet would it be if her tongue were in my mouth!
My body burns with love beneath my shirt
so much that my glowing bones show through
Fulfill the heart lorn Khusrau’s desire, sit here awhile
so your heart will take pity on all my moaning and wailing
Original:
زبان اوست ترکي گوي و من ترکي نمي دانم
چه خوش بودي، اگر بودي زبانش در دهان من
چنان از عشق مي سوزد تنم در زير پيراهن
که از بيرون پيراهن نمايد استخوان من
مراد خسرو بيدل بر آر و يک زمان بنشين
که رحمي بر دلت آيد ز فرياد و فغان من
Translation:
Though you load my body, weak as a hair, with a universe of woe
I’ll not trade a single strand of your hair for both worlds
Why should I explain to you how I am,
now that Khusrau has become a legend in yearning and searching for you?
Original:
به تن چو تار مويت نهي ار دو صد جهان غم
ندهم به هيچ حالي دو جهان به تار مويت
پس ازين چه جاي آنت که ز حال خود بگويم
که فسانه گشت خسرو به جهان ز جستجويت
Translation:
When her robe and her shift touch her skin,
I am envious of her robe and her robe envies her shift
She winks and people die, but does she grieve
the death of so many thousands like me?
Strange, one can get no sense of the stamp of her mind
but can see her spirit move through the thin gauze her body
I feed off it, a parasite, the way you tie people up in your curls
Bring a rope and throw it around my throat.
I crumble to dust on her street, I have only one regret:
that this dust contaminated with sorrow might reach her on the wind
Her lover, her pilgrim, dies a martyr of love
He is blessed and his shroud becomes a regal robe
To be joined with her is no more than this:
the lover is killed and plunged into her tangling hair
You didn’t understand Khusrau what your tongue asked of you
It was a hint to take a sword and cut off its head
Original:
قبا و پيرهن او که مي رسد به تنش
من از قباش به رشکم، قبا ز پيرهنش
کرشمه مي کند و مردمان همي ميرند
چه غم ز مردن چندين هزار همچو منش
عجب، اگر نتوان نقش خاطرش دريافت
ز نازکي بتوان ديد روح در بدنش
طفيل آنکه کسان را به زلف در بندي
بيار يک رسن و در گلوي من فگنش
به کوي او که شوم خاک، نيست غم مگر آنک
ز باد گرد غم آلود من رسد به تنش
شهيد عشق که شد يار در زيارت او
مبارک آمد و فرخنده خلعت کفنش
وصال با وي ازين بيش نيست عاشق را
که کشته گشت و در آمد به زلف پر شکنش
زبان که خواست ز تو، خسروا، نکردي فهم
کنايتي ست که برگير تيغ و سرفگنش
Translation:
Your cheek is like the moon, but more moon than moon
You tortured my heart and left behind a wound
Your wink mows the rows of other beauties down
If it’s not too much trouble, mow down my poor heart too
You cast a shadow on my joy, darkened my heart’s day
and eclipsed the age of far-sighted reason too
“Kill me if you won’t comfort me” I said to you
You can’t be bothered and are too lazy too
So I killed myself, the weapon of my choice: your cruelty
I made it all so easy for you and for myself too
My patience goes missing and leaves me behind
It won’t look back now out of fear, nor peek too far ahead
Let me tie on the infidel sash, abandon these idols
and give up praying and, God forbid, religion too
Though he brings on the apocalypse in my very soul
may he live until the end of days and a little longer too
You always tell me, “My elixir is sweet.”
If you ask Khusrau, darling, he’ll tell you that it’s poison too
Original:
اي رخت چون ماه و از مه بيش هم
خسته کردي سينه ما، ريش هم
غمزه تو بر صف خوبان زند
گر نرنجي بر دل درويش هم
تيره کردي عيش ما و روز دل
روزگار عقل دور انديش هم
گر نوازش نيست کشتن، گفتمت
کاهلي کردي در آن فرويش هم
کشتم از دست جفايت خويش را
بر تو آسان کردم و بر خويش هم
مي رود صبر من آواره ز من
پس نمي بيند ز بينم و پيش هم
ما و زنار مغانه کز بتان
وين نماز، استغفرالله، کيش هم
گر چه بر جانم قيامتها از اوست
تا قيامت عمر بادش بيش هم
هر زمان گويي که نوش من خوش است
گر ز خسرو پرسي، اي جان، نيش هم
Translations from In the Bazaar of Love
by Paul Losensky and Sunil Sharma
