Dard-e-Ishq

The Anguish of Love

O, Anguish of Love! A pearl of purest water, you; Be not revealed to the unworthy view.

Your sacred dwelling place lies veiled from sight, This new assembly seeks but surface light.

A new wind blows through life's once-sacred grounds, O, Anguish of Love, no joy in being found.

Let not the urge for show be your desire, Nor be indebted to the nightingale's sad choir.

Let tulips' cups be drained of Passion's wine, And let the dew's tear be but water's sign.

Let your deep secret in some breast remain, Let no soul-melting tear make your grief plain.

Do not speak through the eloquent poet's tongue, Nor in the reed-flute's sound let grief be sung.

This age of critics calls; go, hide your face, And in your dwelling heart, stay hidden in that place.

Behold how science, in its wondrous haze, Ignores you; see the unperceiving gaze.

Abandon lofty thought to its own chase, And leave the eye of reason in a daze.

This is no garden where your spring could bloom, This gathering deserves not your perfume.

This gathering is slain by shallow spectacle; Your aim's the soul's most secret receptacle.

Each heart is drunk on wines of its own mind; The seekers of this age are of another kind.