Sunday, September 16, 2012


The spring is at its highest in the Pooja season,
Melting cool in the air is exciting.

Exhorts, "Come O! youth! Let's go",
Cuts jokes with the old, "Come! Let's have a look."

The world is youthful, the caravan of Beauty has arrived,
Cupid with drawn bow is ruling.

Beauty descends on earth in the garb of Durga,
Even the old are singing in the warmth of scenes.

There's more brilliance at might than in the day,
Even stars are peeping to see from afar.

Pendals are decorated as if a new town has emerged,
Flocks of fairies roaming about wherever you see.

Knots of hairlocks are more knoty at places,
Dark clouds are no match for the flowing hairlocks.

Look! Lighting is stricking all around,
O God! Save the heart's haystack.

Lovers have descended in the lanes and streets of the city,
Rivals too have come to get heart's desire fulfilled.

The old and the young moving about in colourful garments,
How the weak are striding with puffed up bossom!

Wonderstruck lighting turned into idol having, seen Devi's silver body,
Moreover, wrapped in glistening clothes.

A portrait of splendor, eminence personified,
Matchless in grandeur, glory and greatness.

The Power rules but in peace,
Hand raised for protecting the weak.

Devotess crowding everywhere in the town,
All, small and the big are receiving blessings.

Paying a visit to Mother Durga bestows peace and solace,
Even those with bruised hearts are comforted.

Agree, she is hear for a few days, so what,
The man is somewhat relived of the poison of grief.

With the departure of Durga the inner light is gone,
All spectators of the bride are gone.

The city with a drawn face, is in sorrow,
But hopes that she will visit again.

The potter rears that hope for the whole year,
They fix hair and feather in the clay idol.

This idol making of their's is matchless,
They are Azars* of their time with perfections in their art.
* Azar, father of Abraham, was a famous idol maker.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

What is happening to your heart tell a little to someone,
Who has the heart to listen, but still speak to someone.

Worldly grief would lighten by telling it to someone,
When the grief is not worldly what could be told to someone.

Whenever the heart wells-up for no reason what can be done,
Come on! True! for God's sake speak to someone.

Has someone realised the shock of a shattered dream?
No longer is the dream, even if it remains, so what! tell to someone.

Loneliness is sucking blodd from every breath
This anguish, pain and pang and misery! tell to someone.

Oh! How long you are carrying on this burden on your heart!
Forget, past is past, speak to someone.

Rizwan! It is nothing to turn as the wind blows,
If you have ever turned the wind, tell to someone.

Of the ignorant bud I'm afraid,
Of the flower's end I'm afraid.

Getting stones in return for flowers,
Of flower's name I'm afraid.

Who knows how much is the granted time!
Of the morn, of the eve, I'm afraid.

Come let's get together without cup and jar,
Of the cup going round I'm afraid.

Seeing holy and unholy precincts' conflict,
Of every door and terrace I'm afraid.

Me, in the bond of love and courtesy,
Of a trapless bond I'm afraid.

They say, "Who would stand by Rizwan!"
Of such a nondescript I'm afraid.
No guest has ever visited this lonely habitat since its very inception!
None is singing, no where is the henna colour!

Bare branches longed for leaves and fruits even for once!
There is no pleaser in watching empty spheres.

Storms are still nursed under thick shrouds of silence,
How could the silence be broken! None has touched the heart yet.

They are coming to end, the moments of life were already numbered,
But there is such a heat and vigour in breath as if the sun is not down yet.

Those wandering on streets, beaten by day's heat,
If get to their desitination by the dusk, there is nothing bad about it.

What could not push travelers up to their destinations
That could be the noise of passes by, that can never be my call.

Wake up Rizwan before the time for closing eyes comes,
While stars are still twinkling the down is yet to break.

The pain is rather severe, don't ask,
The pain is incurable, don't ask.

There was time when I had my days,
What I possessed, don't ask.

Just a gracious look,
Changed what was into what it is, don't ask.

Intoxicated with the ascetic drink,
The possession of the dispossessed, don't ask.

In my dust rests
The fire of Karbala, don't ask.

Granted a world, but what did ye bestow!
My God! Don't ask.

The heart breaks, it is said,
The intensity of the pain! Don't ask.

What a wreck and break,
How hot is the wind! Don't ask

All of it was his, whatever it was,
What remains mine, don't ask

Eyes of a lovely fawn!
It's a pleasant dream, don't ask.

Benevolence and cruelties,
For me all are justified, don't ask.

I did not say anything,
But what he said, don't ask.

Oh! That burning passion!
Oh! The pang! Don't ask.

Far from the repose, in a thoroughfare,
You'll find him whom you never get at home even by mistake.

The secret sought after in the Sacred Arch,
Settled in the heart, then why look for within walls and in the opening?

That thing is too old, the stories are of the long past,
When there was a craze in the head by day and night.

Do they not face the turmoil of the time?
Daring are those who are brought up in the whirlpool.

Stopped for a breath, is it losing the heart?
There is still energy in the wings for flight.

There is no provision for journey except feet boils
God knows the destination, but I am travelling.

There is no desire in the broken heart,
Does one live in a deserted ruin?

There was another time when evenings were morning like,
Rizwan there is no pleasure now either in the night or in the morning.