Say something , or people will say ,
“ Ghalib has not created a poem today “
But what can I say ? My pain
Has not entreated for medicine
Or a cure. Is it any wonder
That I have not got better ? But then,
I have not got worse either. Why , though,
Must my rivals be gathered , to narrate
This story to ? Is this a complaint , or the staging
Of a general entertainment ? Is this God’s World,
Still, or does it now belong
To the tyrant, Nimrod ? Why , when I have fasted
And prayed, and prayed , and fasted,
Does nothing good come my way? My rival
Abuses me , and yet I feel no bitterness :
How very sweet his lips are ! It is hotly rumoured
That the loved one is coming over , but alas !
Today , of all days , I have not even a mat ready
For him to sit upon. He takes my heart and walks away : is this love , or highway robbery ? I have given
My life to him , who gave it to me in the first place :
The tragedy is that the loan is still not deemed
To have been paid in full. Where else should I go
To try my destiny , to offer up my life to you ,
When the hand that holds the sword refuses
To wield it ? I don’t shield it , my life , I mean.
My wound is suppressed , but blood continues
To ooze out of it : my work once suspended
Was never resumed. What shall I say , so that
None can point a finger at me , and say ,
“ Ghalib has sung no song today !” ?
Ghalib is not on song today.
( A transcreation of a Ghalib Ghazal )