S. R. Faruqi:

(1) It seems to me, Mir, that the breeze is blowing all coiled and twisted.
Is it that spring is here? Is it that I see chains and fetters around me?

[Any natural wind is conventionally seen as intertwined waves or moving, undulating coils. From here it is not far to imagine the breeze as a cluster of chains. The assumption (not unknown in the Western world too) was that madness, especially the lovers' madness, reappeared or intensified in spring, and the commonest treatment for intensely deranged persons was to put them in chains.]

(2) Delhi's streets were like pages from a painter's album:
each and every face one saw was pretty as a picture.

(3) I was extremely vain about the poignant effect of my tears,
so I saw the outcome of my endeavor when morning dawned.

[That is, nothing happened, the dawn was as rosy as ever and the tears had not even reached the beloved's doorstep.]

(4) Is the rose now packing her bags to depart?
The bulbul, I find, is like a rosebud, its heart in a knot.

(5) Friends, didn't she deliver hard blows and pain to my heart for nothing and for no reason?
But did you ever see any wrongdoing, any fault that I committed?

 

FWP:

(inspired by SRF's translation)

(1) Oh Mir, a wave of breeze, somewhat twisting, came into view.
Perhaps spring has come-- chains came into view.

(2) Delhi had-- not streets, but leaves from a painter's album.
Every form that came into view, came into view as a picture.

(3) We were proud of the potent 'night-journeys' of our tears.
Then their effect-- with the dawn-- came into view.

(4) Perhaps the rose is preparing to travel on.
Heart knotted up like a bud, the Nightingale came into view.

(5) The way she tormented my heart-- it was all over nothing, friends!
Did any fault on my part come into view?

 

Zahra Sabri:

Zahra Sabri is a special guest translator for this site.

(1) I saw the breeze wave around somewhat twistedly, oh “Mir”
Perhaps spring is here – I saw fetters

(2) Delhi’s lanes were not lanes – they were artistic paintings
Each face I saw was a picture

(3) I was so vain and presumptuous about the impress of my night-long tears
But, when morning came – I saw their effect

(4) Perhaps the rose is loading up to prepare for a journey
I saw the nightingale, like the bud, clutching its heart in sorrow

(5) Her torment of me was, of course, causeless, friends
But did it ever happen that you saw even a bit of fault in me, as well?