Loneliness

Let me now go to such a place where there is no one,Where there's no one to converse with, and no one to share a language.

A house, without door or wall, I wish to construct; no neighbor to watch, no guard to obstruct.

In life, they would simply usher me out of the assembly; Now that I am dead, let's see who comes to carry me.

Neither I, nor my beloved, went anywhere with anyone else; only my body went alone to Tagore.

In the lonely night, from the heart's fierce fire's dread, My very shadow, like smoke, from me fled.

Oh, the desert, the color of your voice, O Jaras Upon me, there is a loneliness that has no end.

I die from grief, for there's no one in this world left,Who, after me, will mourn for kindness and love bereft.

Someone tell me, this one is missing, that the revered presence All are familiar here, but I am a stranger.

The place became desolate after me, Or when else would I have found rest?

A house, as if without door or wall, should be built,Let no neighbor dwell there, nor any guard stand still.

Yesterday we saw Asad in a corner of sorrow's dwelling,His hand on his head, head on the knee of a despairing heart.

My bloody lament, a page; my heart, a flower whose theme is twilight's glow;The desolation of solitude adorns the garden of my very breath.

In life, they would dismiss me from the gathering, Let me see now that I've died, who lifts me up?

No hope ever comes to fruition, No path or solution appears in sight.

When shall we pass through the canal, or rather, where shall we spend our time? To whom shall we plead, and where shall we go to call?

Lacking the flow of a river, lacking the sharpness of a thorn, Today, perhaps, my tomorrow has not yet arrived.

If you do not come near, I weep, Through every passing hour of night.

My restless wanderings are within the solitude of a foot-blister;My heart, blood from the anguish of madness's confinement, is my wilderness.

Where once was the school of the city and empire's glory, Today only a single chamber remains in these khanqahs.

What glory did Ghalib possess in his homeland, that in exile he might find acclaim? I am, without reserve, that handful of dry straw, not even found for the furnace's flame.

One coughs, one dies, Oppression reigns everywhere now.

Truly, my state, oh friend, is now like a funeral bier.Yesterday too I stood at a shrine, today too I stand here!

All night, my heart-sore remained unreleased from sorrow, All night, the sleeper in me was denied rest.

Without you, this house's life, it pricks my eye,I always weep, when walls and doors I spy.

Oh beloved, my heart is becoming deserted, I wish to see where the fields extend.

To whom shall I narrate this lament, this yearning to express? My heart's the ledger, where ruby tongues keep tally of all they could be.

Without love, life cannot be spent, and here,My strength's too little for torment's joy to bear.

They say people live their lives on hope, I, myself, have no hope left to live.

When does he ever listen to my tale?And that too, when it's narrated by me?

What should I do, whom should I tell? My friend, you are so distant, In this whole world, I cannot find anyone's assurance.