Why Did You Send Me So Far Away?

Why did you send me,

my dearest father,

so far away as a bride?

I am your caged bird,

father,

that flies off when day dawns.

I am your meek cow,

father,

and will go where I am driven.

When my palanquin passed

below the neem,

my brother was stricken.

A palace or two

for my brothers, for me

this place of exile.

My mother – and sister-in-law taunt me,

‘Your father

didn’t even give you a comb.’

When I lifted the curtain

of the palanquin,

I saw a foreign land.

Thus says Amir Khusrau,

father.

May my marriage last for ages.

In The Bazaar of Love
The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau
Translation by: Paul E. Losensly and Sunil Sharma

Mother, Today There Is Colour

Mother, today there is colour
in my beloved’s home:
colour in his courtyard,
a happy meeting with my lover.

Mother, there is colour.
I found a pir, Nizamuddin Auliya –
Whenever I look he is with me.

Mother, there is colour.
Nizamuddin Auliya, he brightens the world.
He is with me whenever I look.
Mother, there is colour.

 

(the song is a lot different from the poem, but this is the one I like best)

In The Bazaar of Love
The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau
Translated by: Paul E. Losensky and Sunil Sharma

Come Colour Me in Your Own Hue

Colourful, come colour me in your own hue.

You are my lord, Beloved of God.
My veil and my lover’s turban,
colour them both with spring.

You are my lord, Beloved of God.
As the price you demand for the pigment,
accept the payment of my flowering youth.

You are my lord, Beloved of God.
I have arrived at your threshold,
protect my honour.

You are my lord, Beloved of God.
Nizamuddin Auliya is my pir,
be my companion in love.

You are my lord, Beloved of God.

 

In The Bazaar of Love
The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau
Translated by: Paul E. Losensky and Sunil Sharma

In the Bazaar of Love

• “Hindavi was the language from old times; when the Ghurids and Turks arrived [in India], Persian began to be used and every high and low person learned it. . . As I belong to India, it is only fitting that I talk about it. There is a different, original language in every region of this land. Sindhi, Lahori, Kashmiri, Kibar, Dhaur Samundari, Tilangi, Gujar, Ma’bari, Gauri, the languages of Bangalah, Avadh, Dehli and its environs, all these are Hindavi, i.e., Indian languages, current since the olden days and commonly used for all kinds of speech. There is yet another language that is favoured by all the Brahmins. It is known as Sanskrit since ancient times; common people do not know it, only the Brahmins do, but one single Brahmin cannot comprehend its limits. Like Arabic, Sanskrit has a grammar, rules of syntax, and a literature . . . Sanskrit is a pearl; it may e inferior to Arabic but is superior to Dari . . . If I knew it well I would Praise my sultan in it also.”
• If Honey is useful,
  vinegar too has its buyers.
  If a pearl is expensive,
  amber too has value.
  This work is without blemish.
  It has glitter, if not gold.
• The night and I – this is my life.
  Sorrow and the heart – this is my joy.
  I drink heart’s blood all night
  in her memory. This is my pale pink wine.
  At night I bewail the insomnia
  of absence. This is my cordial song.
  I and dark nights in grief’s corner –
  this is where I secretly rejoice.
  Her phantom closes my eyes to myself,
  for this is my soulmate at night.
  She shouldn’t be distressed by my distress.
  This is just what I suspected from my heart.
  Sometimes I die for her love, sometimes
  I live again – this is how my life goes.
  Permit me to die at your feet,
  for this is my eternal life.
  Khusrau costs you no more than to say,
  ‘This is the slave I got for free.’
• 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.
• I love you so much
  I am overcome with jealousy
  if you treat someone else
  as badly as you treated me.
• ‘Kill me if you won’t comfort me,’
  I said to you. You’re too lazy
  to be bothered, and much too blase.
  So, I killed myself: my weapon of choice,
  your cruelty. I made it all so
  easy for you, and for myself, too.
• Though he brings on the apocalypse
  in my very soul, may he live until
  the end of days and a little longer, too.
• Gold is just a yellow clay when we have it weighed in wisdom’s scales.
• In the silence of my heart, I’ll say
  ‘He’s mine.’ Even if it’s not so,
  I’ll lie all the same.
• Your absence: my old friend
  Sorrow for you: my old consolation
  Pain you caused: my everyday guest
  Scars you left: my old souvenirs.
• You bring the lips,
  and I’ll bring the heart:
  now you have both wine and kebab.
  Make merry!
  Spill my blood,
  and if anyone asks,
  you have dozens of answers
  on each eyelash.
• Music thus requires both voice and melody,
  Poetry needs only a connoisseur of words.
  Poetry is the bride and song her ornament, but
  is there any harm if a beautiful bride has none?
  One who knows this I consider to be human, if not
  he should ask me, but if he doesn’t he is an ass.

 

In The Bazaar of Love
The Selected Poetry of Amir Khusrau
Translated by: Paul E. Losensky and Sunil Sharma