S. R. Faruqi:

(1) Ebb and tide in each other's embrace; tumult heaving and rolling out from them in resonance,
So whose secret does the ocean hold, dear Lord, that it's rolling and boiling?

(2) The wave is someone's arched brow, the bubbles are someone's eyes,
the pearls are someone's words, the pink oyster shells someone's ears.

(3) Right from the wine sellers' alley, I bade farewell to all pilgrims.
What had I to do with circumambulating the holy Kaaba, bound by no rules as I was, and draining the wine to the lees?

(4) The moonbeams would fall still, wonderstruck, like a bright mirror,
if you were to go out into the moonlit night wearing white.

(5) Walking in the garden yesterday I lost my heart:
a flower-seller's boy toting a basket of blooms appeared and then,
(6) like springtime, he vanished.
Without him, the red scars of my heart wear mourning black today.

[It was a convention--used by Mir frequently--to write a verse or two in praise of a craftsman's or a professional's young boy; boys, for instance, of a wine seller, a flower seller, a builder, a goldsmith, and so on. Sometimes the tone is ironical or self-mocking; at other times the tone is less ambiguous and the meaning tilts toward homosexuality or boy love.]

(7) Last night, opening up our closed hearts by the power of wine,
many of us idlers chatted in the tavern,
(8) when suddenly a voice cried, "Remember the days gone by!
You men of discernment, you must also draw lessons.
(9) The deviser of a world-reflecting wine-cup--Jamshed was his name--what is he now?
Where are his assemblies, where the wine-guzzling, music-laden sessions?
(10) No sign of his cup remains except for the red poppy.
its pod now pretending to hold aloft the wine-cup.
(11) In place of wine-swilling, swaying young men, the weeping willow sways alone in the wind.
And the old wine-seller's skull? It is now the stopper for a cask of wine."

(12) Zamir composed a fine ghazal in this rhyme pattern, Mir,
so this is enough from you. Now quiet, you chatterer!

[Zamir was the pen-name of several Persian and Urdu poets; it is not clear which one might be referred to in this verse.]

 

FWP:

(inspired by SRF's translation)

(1) From the embrace of wave peaks and troughs, turmoil arises--
Whose mystery is in the ocean, oh Lord, that it boils up like this?

(2) The wave is an arched brow, the bubble is an eye,
The pearl is someone's words; the oyster-shell, someone's ear.

(3) Right from the tavern-boys' street, I saw everybody off--
What's a Ka'bah pilgrimage, to a hard-core drinker like me?

(4) The amazed moon-rays would be frozen into a mirror
If you would go out in the moonlight, wearing white.

(5) Yesterday, strolling in the garden, I gave away my heart.
A flower-seller's boy, basket on his shoulder,
(6) came-- and went-- like the spring season.
Today, without him, my heart-wound wears mourning black.

(7) Last night, opening our constricted hearts with the force of wine,
A number of us sat in the wine-house, killing time.
(8) A voice came: "Remember the past age!
It's surely a bit of a lesson, oh sharp-witted group!
(9) What became of Jamshid, with his wine and his world-showing cup?
Where did those gatherings go? Where all that music and drinking?
(10) Except for the tulip, there's no trace of his cup.
The poppy, instead, now bears the flagon.
(11) Willows sway, instead of wine-drinking young men.
The tavern-master's head is the lid of the wine-cask."

(12) Mir, Zamir said that this ghazal was fine.
But enough of your babbling-- be silent!

[This reading of the first line is surely the correct one, but SRF missed it completely, and I did too. Zahra Sabri gets full credit for thinking of it.]

 

Zahra Sabri:

Zahra Sabri is a special guest translator for this site.

(1) From every ebb and flow, embracing each other, loud rumbles arise
Whose secret does the ocean hold, oh Lord, that there is such ferment?

(2) The wave is someone’s curved brow, the bubble someone’s eye
The pearl is something someone said, the oyster-shell someone’s ear

(3) Right from the lane of the tavern-keepers’ sons, I said my farewells
What have I to do with circling the Ka‘bah, I being a deep-drinking libertine?

(4) Struck with wonder, the moonbeams will become a mirror’s radiance
If you emerge into the moonlight, dressed in white

(5) Yesterday, while taking touring the garden, I gave away my heart
A flower-seller’s beardless boy, carrying a basket, arrived, and then
(6) Like the spring season, steadily departed from view
Without him today, the wounds of my liver are clad in sombre black

(7) Last night, easing our afflicted hearts through the force of wine
We were sitting in the winehouse, frittering away our time
(8) A voice sounded: “Remember bygone times
It’s necessary to take a bit of admonishment too, oh perspicacious assembly
(9) What became of Jamshed who invented the wine-cup?
Where went those gatherings? Where is all that revelry?
(10) We find no mark of his wine-cup except in the red poppy
In his place, the poppyhead is now cupbearer
(11) Willows sway in place of wine-drinking young men
The head of the chief tavernkeeper is the clay lid atop the wine jar

(12) “Mir”, Zamir had expressed praise for this ghazal
But, oh long-winded jabberer, that’s quite enough now – be silent!