Goristan-e-Shahi

The Royal Graveyard

The sky, in clouds, an ancient mantle wears, The mirror of the moon a sullied face now bears.

The moonlight’s pale within this hush profound, While in night’s arms, the sleeping dawn is bound.

The trees in awesome stillness stand arrayed, A soft lament on Nature’s harp is played.

Each atom’s heart is filled with pain untold, And Silence, on Life’s lips, a sigh grown cold.

That fortress, once a world-embracing keep, Now bears the weight of ages, buried deep.

Once filled with life, now desolate and vast, A graveyard for the tumults of the past.

In love with dust from its own ancient race, It stands like a lone guard in this high place.

Through windows in the clouds, beyond our view, A star looks on, of faint and greenish hue.

It sees the world, a game of dust and strife, And knows by heart the tale of failed human life.

Since time’s first dawn, this traveler takes its flight, And watches revolutions from that height.

For stars, no rest is found in all of space, It stops to say a prayer in this sad place.

The earth is rich with life’s resplendent bloom, Yet for a hundred cultures, it’s a tomb.

This place of sorrow is a royal bed, O watchful eye, a tribute of red tears now shed!

A graveyard, yes, but dust of high degree, A fallen nation’s final treasury.

So wondrous is the glory of each tomb, The gazing eye fears blinking in the gloom.

Such is the sense of failure in this scene, No words can mirror what these ruins mean.

They sleep in silence, far from life’s loud fray, Whom restless, grand ambitions once did sway.

In this dark grave, those suns of glory lie, Before whose gates once bowed the very sky.

Is this the end of all their mighty fame, Whose statecraft put Decline itself to shame?

Let Caesar’s glory or a Khan’s decree hold sway, The raid of Death can ne’er be held at bay.

The grave’s the harvest that all kings must reap, The final stop where roads of glory sleep.

What of the feast’s delight, the lute’s soft strain? The cry of those who suffered worldly pain?

What of the battlefield, the clashing steel? The holy roar that made the spirit reel?

No sound can wake the sleepers from their rest, No vanished soul return to this dead breast.

The soul in dust, a tyrant’s torment knows, The breath, now wind, a reed-pipe’s sorrow blows.

For human life is like a songbird’s flight, It sings a moment, then is lost to sight.

Alas! We came to this world's garden, then passed by, We bloomed on life’s own branch, then drooped to die.

For king and beggar, Death makes dreams come true, Its tyranny, a justice, strange and new.

The chain of Being is a shoreless sea, And every wave, a tomb for you and me.

O Greed, weep tears of blood! This life’s a lie, A spark’s brief smile on straw that’s doomed to die.

The moon, a miracle of God’s own hand, In quicksilver robes, glides graceful o’er the land.

But in the starless void, so vast and dread, See its despair when morning light is spread.

That which was moon is now a wisp of grey, A final teardrop that will fade away.

The life of nations is as frail a thing, A portrait of past hues is all their spring.

In this domain of loss, no noble race Can be a burden on Time's shoulder-space.

The world is used to seeing nations fall, And watches with indifference to it all.

No single form can hold its shape for long, For Time’s own nature craves a newer song.

The world’s great ring is gemmed with names still bright, And Mother Earth bears nations into light.

This path has known a thousand caravans' tread, The Koh-i-Noor has seen kings crowned and dead.

Both Egypt, Babylon, are wiped from sight, Their stories vanished from the book of light.

The sun of Persia set in doom’s dark night, And Time has plundered Greece and Roman might.

The Muslim, too, has from the world’s stage passed, A cloud of March, that rose and rained, and did not last.

The rose’s vein, a string of pearly dew, A sunbeam tangled in the morning’s view.

The river’s breast, a cradle for the light, How lovely is the sun, a streamside sight!

The cypress preens, the stream its mirror holds, The breeze of spring, the rosebud’s grace unfolds.

The cuckoo calls from its green garden home, In leafy solitude, where none may roam.

The nightingale, the garden’s vibrant song, Whose music keeps the garden’s spirit strong.

A fleeting portrait of love’s vibrant art, How playful is the script of Nature’s heart!

The garden holds a silent court of flowers, The valley rings with cries from shepherd’s bowers.

This ancient world with vibrant life is fraught, In death itself, a living pulse is caught.

The petals fall in autumn’s gentle breeze, Like painted toys a sleeping child might release.

Though in this world of joy, delight is rife, The sorrow for our nation stains our life.

Our hearts are filled with memories of the past, This nation’s love for its lost kings will last.

These ruined walls are but a cause to weep, Our eyes, through constant tears, their vision keep.

We give the world the pearls our sad eyes shed, We are the final clouds of a storm now dead.

But in this cloud, a hundred pearls remain, And in its silent heart, bolts of lightning strain.

This cloud can make the desert dust a rose, And wake the farmer’s hope from its repose.

Though passed the age of their majestic state, A dawn of beauty still becomes their fate.