Tag: Translation

Posted in Poetry

Maikash I Urdu | Poetry

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Andhero me doobi thi jinki shaame,

Surkh seher ka intezar karte hain;

Samandar ne pyasa chhoda jin maikash ko,

Teri ek nazar ka intezar karte hain.

.

Saaki koste h husn wale ko,

Baadakash ishare pe jaam chhodte hain,

Dilbar, khol de ye darwaze,

Teri dahleez pe sare aam dum todte hain.

.

Teri inayat deewane par ho jaye;

Ek pal deedar mayassar ho jaye;

Mar k hi uthega gar ye naqab,

Hum kehte h muqarrar ho jaye.

Translation

Those who lived in the darkest night

Await dawn’s first light,

Thirst that a sea could not drown

Awaits your eyes to alight.

.

Cup bearers hate your lure;

On your cue, the drunk left his cup behind,

Love, open your door;

Dying at your doorway for the world to deride.

.

A favour he begs, besotted as is he,

To see you just a moment for;

If only death can take off your veil;

Ready to die forever more.

Context:

Hidden behind veil, muslim women have long inspired Urdu Poetry–lover’s first sight being worth more than one’s life.

Overtly, Urdu poets consider Allah as the most beautiful love, hidden behind the veil that will be lifted only after death, making death not an ending but a beginning of forever instead.

Posted in Reblog

Reblog: Sajadah di Pundak Lelaki Senja

Posted on by Shaily Agrawal

Note from Shaily: Here is a piece in Indonesian by a co-blogger, Sunarno. Even though I don’t know that language, I am a fan because the Google translation of his pieces take me to a world made purely of feelings.

Here is the link to the original post: Link

And here is the Google Translation of his piece (I can’t vouch for accuracy of translation but assure you reading it will be worth it.).

Prayer mat on the shoulders of the Dusk Man

The market has shed its frenzy. The old man walked slowly, prayer mat hanging over his shoulders like an unhurried promise. The call to prayer has not yet sounded, but the time has shifted from bargaining to contemplation. The lowing of cattle was the only sound that lingered, filling the space left by conversation and ambition.

The ground was still wet with footprints and dirt that hadn’t been swept away, like a wound that had been left to dry on its own. No one is in a hurry to clean up, because here, chaos is part of everyday life, and everyday life is part of unfinished prayers.

And the man stopped for a moment at the edge of the prayer room, looking at the sky which was slowly turning orange. The prayer mat on his shoulders is not just a piece of cloth, but a path home that he carries wherever he goes. Behind the wrinkles on his face, there is a history of the market, a history of rice fields, a history of loss that he never talks about. Twilight embraced him silently, as if to say: prayer doesn’t need to be rushed, because every remaining second is an opportunity to return.