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سر سريراڳ
پهريون داستان
ڪچ ڪمايم ڪوڙ، ڀڳم عهد الله جا،
پڃرو جو پاپن جو سو چوٽيءَ تائين چُور،
معلوم اٿئي مذڪور، ڳوڙها انهيءَ ڳالهه جو.
X. THE TRAFFICKING
I have gained by my haggling the flimsy and
false,
The vows of my God I have broken.
My head on its empty framework of sins
Is a crushed and a miserable token.
O dullard, thou knowest the sense of this thing,
For its speech hath already been spoken.
ڪوڙ ڪمايهءِ ڪَچ، اُٿي اورِ الله سين،
ڪڍئون دغا دل مان، صاحب وڻي سچ،
محبت سندو من ۾ مورون ٻارج مچ،
اِن پر اُٿي اَچ، ته سودو ٿيئي سڦرو.
Thou hast gained by thy haggling the flimsy
alone,
Go, tell then to God thou art lacking.
Drive out thy deceit. For the Lord loveth truth.
Love's bonfire blazing and cracking
Kindle within thee: and so wilt thou trade
That gain there come of thy packing.
اَڏا چِڪَڻَ چاڙهه، موج نه سَهي مَڪُڙي،
ميڙي مَٺاين جا بيحد چاڙهيم بار،
چوڻ چارو ناه ڪو بديون بيشمار،
ڪَپَرُ ڪارونڀار، تون اُڪارئين احسان سين.
The swing of the surge sets foul and the boat
Cannot suffer its flooding and swelling.
I loaded her up to her hatches with sins
In multitude far beyond telling.
God! Show Thy favour and take me across
This ocean in terror compelling.
وکر سو وهاءِ جو پَئي پراڻو نه ٿئي،
ويچيندي ولات ۾ ذرو ٿئي نه ضايع،
سا ڪا هڙ هلاءِ، آڳهه جنهن جي اُبِهين.
Go. Make thy purchase of goodly gear
That loseth no virtue in aging.
For this thou will sell on a distant strand
And lose not a plack in thy gauging.
So traffic in gear that will keep thee secure
In the hazardous fight thou art waging.
ٻيڙي پُراڻي، وکر پاءِ مَ وِتِرو،
تري ۾ تُنَ پيا پاسن ۾ پاڻي،
هي هَڏِ وِهاڻي، ڪڙهه ڪالهوڻي ڏينهن کي.
The galley is aged. Heap not so high
The chattels that are of thy lading.
Her timbers are riddled; by keel and by strake,
The waters pour through them invading.
Her doom hath been sealed. Oh! Ponder thou well
The doings of yesterday's trading.
اچي سر ڏٺوءِ، جو ڪپر سوءِ ڪنن سين،
ستي لوڪ لطيف چئي ياد نه ذرو ڪيوءِ،
غافِل ٿي غوراب کي اوڙاه تي آندوءِ،
سو ڇتَرُ ڇوهي کان رکين جو پيو پراڻو پوءِ،
جهاز ضعيفن جو پاڻي ۾ پرتوءِ،
سيّد، ساٿ سندوءِ، پُوربندر پهچائين.
Thou hast heard with thine ears the watery
surge:
Tis here by thine eyes for the seeing.
In the watches of night when men sleep, says
Latif,
Thou didst not remember its being.
Thou didst bring thy craft to the eddying surf.
For neglect this thy weird thou art dreeing.
دنگيءَ ۾ داڻا، وٺي وجهه وکر جا،
وِيرِ وڙهنديءِ ويسرا، ويههَ مَ ويڳاڻا،
هيءَ ننڊ نڄاڻان، ڪڏهن هڻندئي ڪُن ۾.
The grains that are stuff of thy trading bring
And load on the boat for the sailing.
The waves will fight thee, forgetful one,
But sit not, thus, sad one, bewailing.
When thou will find thyself cast in the surf
I know not, a wretch unavailing.
ٻيڙياتا ٻيئي، تو نه ڦٻنديون ڳالهيون،
سڄيون راتيون سمهي ڀَرِ سُکاڻ ڏيئي،
صباح سڀيئي، پار پُڇندءِ خبرون.
O boatmen! The best of both worlds can't be won.
If all night by rudder you're sleping,
Morning-news of you there, over there, all will
ask.
ستا سڀ پئي، سندي معلم آسري،
اوهين پڻ سمهو ناکئا، بندر ناه ڀئي،
جن جي سيّد لَڄ کنئي، سي سڀ لنگهيندا لَڪِيون.
(Sleep-drowsed, in their helmsman trust keeping,
On board all are sleeping! You sleep, sailors,
too!)
All who're sheltered of God, their trials will
pass through
No port-peril harvest's for reaping.
ٻيو داستان
سڀيئي سبحان جي ڪر حوالي ڪم،
ٿي تحقيق تسليم ۾ لاهي غمَ وهمَ،
ته قادرُ ساڻ ڪرمَ، حاصل ڪري حاج تو.
XI. BLESSED ARE THE MEEK
O All thy works to God commit,
To God on whom there falleth praise.
In meek submission being true
From tribulation free thy days.
With mercy then the Mighty Lord
Will fashion what thy heart essays.
چڱن مان چڱايون اِيئن سڀڪو هوءِ،
تو جئن ڪري نه ڪوءِ، بُڇن ساڻ ڀلائيون.
Among good folk do good deeds
Is surely everybody's plan.
Thou dost good deeds amongst the bad.
Is there, like thee, another man?
چڱا ڪن چڱايون مٺايون مَٺن،
سي وڙ سيئي ڪن، جي وڙ جڙن جن سين.
Good deeds are by good people done:
Ill deeds are with the wicked found.
They works of goodness do perform
Whom good with fitting grace hath crowned.
ويا سي وينجهار، هيرو لعل ونڌين جي،
تنهين سندا پوئيان سيهي لهن نه سار،
ڪُٽين ڪَٽ لُهار، هاڻي اُنهين ڀيڻئين.
The lapidaries now are gone
Who diamond pierced and ruby red.
But they who followed after them
Have not the skill to work in lead.
Where craftsmen wrought of yore, the smiths
Beat worthless pewter now instead.
اگهئو ڪائو ڪَچ، ماڻڪن موٽ ٿي،
پليهءِ پايو سچ، آڇيندي لڄ مران.
The taste is all for tawdry trash,
When pearls are given in change away.
If I offered truth in garment's hem
Of very shame I'd die today.
جتي ماڻڪ ماڳ، تتي چوران تڪيو،
سئون تن سَڀاڳ، اَمل جن اُباهيو.
Where'er today the pearls are found
There now, alas, the thieves abide.
Good honest luck today is theirs
Who laid their precious gems aside.
ٽيون داستان
مون ٿي چَيهُءِ ڪانڌَ، ڀُتي ڀاڙ مَ مَڪُڙي،
سڙهه پراڻا پاند، لهريون صحي لڳنديون.
XII. THE LADING
To thee I said, O good my friend,
No crazy wreck on work engage.
The waves, of certainty, will swamp
The sails and sheets that fail for age.
وير وڙهندئي ويسرا، اُٿي توه طلب،
سائر ڪنهن سبب، ڪالهه نه وڌين ڪُن ۾.
The surge will fight thee, foolish man,
Arise and ask that mercy be.
I know not how it happed yestreen
Thou wert not cast within the sea.
ڦر ڦل، ڦوٽا، پارچا، اَگر ۽ عنبير،
اهڙو وڻج وٺي ڪري وِجههُ وڻجارا وِيرَ،
ڀُتي ڀاڙ مَ مَڪُڙي، اَڳيان سائر سڄي سير،
آهي اهک عنات چئي، جر جوکاري نير،
گهَرِ تنهِين جي کير، ساٿ جن جي سڄيون.
Cloves, cardamoms and store of cloth,
Sweet-smelling grass and ambergris,
O merchant, let thy cargo be
That thou dost set upon the seas.
No crazy wreck on work engage,
For hark! Ahead the breakers rage.
Inayat says: 'The water's dread
Lives in the rolling ocean swell.'
The milk of luck stays in the house
Of them with whom true things do dwell.
ڦر ڦل، ڦوٽا، پارچا، پاڻيٺ پاتائون،
ڪوٺيون قيمت سَنديون تڙ ۾ تاڪيائون،
لاڄن منجهه لطيف چئي ٻيڙا ٻڌائون،
نذر نبيءَ ڄام جو چڙهندي چيائون،
جي ڇهي ڇوڙيائون، سي ٻيڙيون رکين تون ٻاجهه سين.
Cloves, cardamoms and cloth and pearls,
They won wherewith to fill their store.
Down in the water deep they found,
Of precious lockers, wealth galore.
They tied their boats with hawsers fast,
So doth Latif the Poet tell.
They clomb aboard and to the Lord
The Prophet vows they vowed well:
'O Thou-that-art-with-Mercy save
The boats they set upon the swell.'
چوٿون داستان
تانگهي ۾ تاڻي، ٻڌ پنهنجو ترهو،
اُونهين ۾ آڻي، ڪونه ڏيندءِ ڪو ٻيو.
XIII. THE VOYAGING
Where shoals the channel, pull thy boat
And tie it up beside the brink.
Who but thyself will help thee bring
It where to the depth the waters sink?
تارُو تريو وڃن، ننڍا وڏا واهڙا،
هيءُ پر اَتارَنِ، جئن ڳرا مٿن مولهيا.
They who can swim upon the sea
Swim o'er the runnels small and great.
Bu they who swim not load their heads
With burden of their turbans' weight.
ڪائو ڪمايوم، موتي مون نه وڻجيا،
سيهي جو، سيّد چئي، وکر وهايوم،
ههڙو حال سندوم، توهِ تنهنجي اُبهان.
In trash I traded: not a pearl
I laid in store. The Sayid sings
'In lead I trafficked'. Thus, O God,
My state unto thy mercy clings.
بندر جان ڀئي، تان سکاڻيا مَ سمهو،
ڪَپَرُ ٿو ڪُن ڪري جئن ماٽيءَ منجهه مَهي،
ايڏو سور سهي، ننڊ نه ڪجي ناکُئا.
While by the port the danger lasts,
O helmsmen, stay from slumber far.
The whirling of the waters is
As frothing whey within the jar.
کِنوَڻِ کِنوايو، آئي ننڊ اَڀاڳ کي،
جنين ڀؤ نه ڀانئيو، ڪري توائي تن کي.
The lightning flashed. To luckless men
Fool slumber came: and they who thought
They were from dire occurrence free
Were by their very sleep unwrought.
مڪي هيج مهوج، ترس مَ، تاڻ جهاز کي،
چئو ڪلمو محمد مير تي ته اَڳيان اَچئي اوج،
سَهُکي ڀَتِ سٻوجهه، ته تنهنجي مَڪي ڊُڪي مَڪڙي.
Let Mecca be thy port or no,
Delay not, urge thy vessel on,
Repeat at Lord Muhammad's tomb
The holy words of God and doom,
That succour come to thee anon.
So regulate thy ways and strive
That thou at Mecca mayst arrive.
سُر کنڀات
پهريون داستان
پيشاني ۾ پرين جي ڀلائي جا ڀير،
اڱڻ اُڪنڊين جي ڏي پهي پير،
قمرُ پاڙي ڪير، شمس سپرين سين.
XIV. BELOVED'S BEAUTY
On the forehead of my Beloved are set signs that
are kind for me.
With a smile he comes to my courtyard where I
long for him, mine own.
Who claims that the moon with the sun of Belov'd
can ever the equal be,
Though the moon to a white perfection on the
fourteenth day be grown?
اَڄ پڻ اَڇائي چوڏهينءَ ماه چنڊ جي،
مون گهر مون پرين جي اَچڻ جي وائي،
مون گهر واڌائي، پيئي کام کرن ۾.
In my house there are folk a-talking of Beloved
at the door:
In my house are happy welcomings. The jealous
jealous be!
And yet, were a thousand suns to rise and moons
four score and four,
In the name of Allah, without my love I should
nothing but darkness see.
چنڊ تنهنجي ذات، پاڙيان نه پرين سين،
تون اَڇو م رات، سڄڻ نت سوجهرا.
O moon, such a paltry thing as thou art, would I
ever compare to the Friend?
His splendour gleameth for ever: and lo! Only at
night thou art bright.
ناسيِندي نگاه، پهرين ڪج پرين ڏي،
احوال عاجزن جا آکج لڳ الله،
روز نهارينِ راه، اکيون اوهانجي آسري.
At the hour of thy morning's uprising first thy
glance on Beloved bend:
'Beloved! On thee are our trusting eyes set
every day without end',
For Allah's sake, speak thus in his ear of our
lovesick sorrowful plight.
ٻيو داستان
ڪرها ڪسر ڇڏ، وکون وجهه وڌنديون،
هيڪر حبيبن سان مون کي نيئي گڏ،
مڇڻ پوَني هڏ، آهون اُڪنڍين جون.
XV. THE WAYWARD HEART
O camel, cea thy lingering
And lengthen out thy pace.
This once my loved one bring me nigh.
Then in thine ears there cannot ring
The semblance of a yearning sigh.
ڪرها ڪسر ڇڏ، وک وڌندي پاءِ،
منهنجو هلڻ اُتهين جت جانب جي جاءِ،
توکي چندن چاريان، ٻيو وڳ لاڻي کاءِ،
اِئين اُٺ اٺاءِ، جئن هونديءَ رات هُتِ مِڙون.
O camel, cease to lag behind
And lengthen out thy pace.
This night I have it in my mind
To see my loved one's face.
گل ڳانا ياقوت جا، موتي منجهه مهار
چانگا چندن چاريندءِ اٺئي پهر اپار
سندي پِيءَ پچار، جي مون رات رسائين.
For thee I bring the sandalwood.
Let others salt-bush eat.
This very night be thine the mood
To take me where my loved one stood
That there we twain may meet.
آڻي ٻڌمِ وڻ جاءِ، ته مانَ مکريون چري،
ڪُڌاتورو ڪرهو لڪيو لاڻي کاءِ،
ان مئي سندي ماءُ، مون کي ڳالهين ڳاريو.
The camel, mother, for my needs
I brought and tied beside the tree.
When he on wealth of buds might feast,
He, sneaking, on the salf-bush feeds,
The mean and miserable beast,
Undoing all my work for me.
چانگي چئي چڪياس، مٿان اَڪ نه اُلهي،
جنهن دل گهڻا وِهاٽيا، اُن سين آر لڳياس.
The stupid brute I tell and tell
That in the milkbush there's no zest;
Yon poison bush is many's knell
But hath his silly head obsessed.
چوڌاري چندن وڻ پچي پوڄَ پِياسِ،
رئاري رتُ ڪياس، هن ڪَڌاتوري ڪَرهي.
Around in plenty for his need
Is ripened scrub of sandalwood.
The sulky grumbler pays no heed
And makes me weep my tears in blood.
چانگا چندن نه چرين، ميان پئين نه موڪ،
اَگر اوڏو نه وڃين، ٿُڪيو ڇڏين ٿوڪ،
لاڻي وچان لوڪ، تو ڪهڙي اَکر آئڙي.
And wilt thou thus, O camel, pass
The sandalwood, nor drink thy fill?
Thou seekest not the fragrant grass
But spurnest it as something ill.
It must be thy distorted mood
That made thee find the salt-bush good.
اُٿي اڙائينس، ڇڏيو ته ڇيڪ ٿيو،
کارايان کِڙيو وڃي، پلاڻي پائينس
ڏاوَڻ تنهن ڏائينس، جئن چري ۽ چنگهي ڀُڻو.
Arise and bind him. Let him free
And he will lose himself and roam.
I feed him and he sulkier gets.
Put no the saddle when he frets.
With shackled feet still growl will he
But will not wander far from home.
ڪرهي کي ڪَئين، وڌمِ پئَد پلڻ جا،
ليڙو لاڻيءَ کي چري نَيَرِ ساڻ نئين،
چانگي سندي چت ۾ صاحب وجهه سئين،
اُوباهيوس اَوهين، لطف ساڻ، لطيف چئي.
To keep him fast I tied him up:
The shackles bound with tug and strain.
The beast has gone with hobbles on
To eat the salt-bush once again!
O Lord, into this camel's head
Put something that in sense doth share.
O save him, Lord of Mercy, save:
Such is Latif the poet's prayer.
سُر آسا
پهريون داستان
آءٌ سين اِن پار، ڪڏهن تان ڪونه پيو،
’اِنّ الله وِترُ يُحِبّ الوِتر‘ نيئي ٻيائي ٻار،
هيڪڙائيءَ وٽ هار، هنجون جي هُئڻَ جون.
XVI. ONE-NESS
Across life's ocean no one yet
With 'i' as guide his foot hath set.
God indeed who is one
Adoreth one-ness alone.
Take Two-ness off to burn with fire.
Existence may man's tears require.
This weeping should be done
Before One-ness alone.
جان جان پسين پاڻ کي تان تان ناه سُجُودُ،
وڃائي وجُود، تهان پوءِ تڪبير چؤ.
On self alone while eyes be set
No truth of worship can'st thou get.
First kill all life's emprise:
Say word of Sacrifice.
نابوديءَ نيئي عَبدَ کي اعليٰ ڪيو،
مورت ۾ مخفي ٿيا، صورت پڻ سيئي،
ڪَبي اِتِ ڪيهي، ڳالهه پِريان جي ڳُجههَ جي؟
What-no-existence-knows hath grace
To raise the slave to lofty place.
Who secret are in their heart
Are secret in outward part.
Here how can mystery be told
Which the Beloved doth enfold?
ٻيو داستان
مون کي اکڙين، وڏا ٿورا لائيا،
ته پڻ پرين پسن، کڻان جي کَرَ سامهيون.
XVII. THESE PALTRY EYES OF MINE
These paltry eyes of mine
Have brought me favour's grace.
If evil but before them be,
They see love in its place.
اکڙيون پرين ري جي ڪي ٻيو پسن،
ته ڪڍي کي ڪانگن، نيوالا نيڻ ڏِيان.
If paltry eyes of mine
Did aught but Love disclose,
I'd pluck them out to cast
As morsels for the crows.
تن نيڻن ڪئي نيران، جن ساجهر سيڻ سانڀيٽيا،
جِيءَ جُسي ۽ جان، ڪر حُضُوري حج ڪيو.
Mine eyes have made a feast
Where kin and friends engage.
It is as if life, body, soul
Had gone on pilgrimage.
ڏِسن ڏِهاڙي، توءِ ترسنِ اوڏهين،
آيا سڃاڻي، نيڻ نهاري پرينءَ کي.
All day they look, and yet
They halt out there to see;
They saw and recognized Love
And have returned to me.
اکين کي آهين، عجب جهڙيون عادتون،
سُور پرائي ساٿ جا وڃيو وِهائين،
اُتي لنؤن لائين، جِتِ حاجت ناهِ هَٿيار جي.
Strange habits have mine eyes
To trade with other's pain
Love's conquest they have made
Where weapon brings no gain.
سُر پرڀاتي
پهريون داستان
موڙهو ڀُڻين مڱڻا! ڪيڏانهن هُئين ڪالهه؟
لَنگها ڇڏ، لطيف چئي اُجَهڻ جا اَفعال،
سپڙ در سوال، ڪر ته قيمت آڻئين.
XVIII. THE MUSICIAN
Musician, you are wearied. Where were you
yesterday?
Give, up, Latif is saying, your ways of giving
in.
The door of the Almighty, go beg there on your
way
And gifts that are of value win.
ڏات نه آهي ذات تي، جو وهي سو لهي،
آريون اَٻوجهن جون سَپَڙُ ڄام سهي،
جو وٽس رات رهي، تنهن کي جُکي جا نڪيعان نه ٿئي.
The gifts of the Almighty do not depend on
caste.
The worker is the finder. The king,
All-Powerful, Great,
Bears coaxings of the ignorant. With Him the
night who passed
Will find that trouble's burden hath no weight.
کَڙَهَه اڳيان کَپُ ڏِهاڙي ڏاتار جي،
مڱڻهارن مَپُ، ڪونهي ٻيو ڪيرت ري.
So, daily, earnest effort make before the
Giver's door.
No other business has a singing stroller but to
sing:
'Thou mighty art: I yearner am. Thou gift on
gifts dost pour,
While I am but a senseless thing.
تون سَپَڙُ، آءٌ سيڪڙو تون ڏاتارُ آءٌ ڏڏُ،
سُڻي تنهنجو سَڏُ، ڪلهي پاتم ڪينرو.
I heard Thy call, O God, and put my fiddle on my
shoulder.
Thou mighty art: I yearner am. Thou gift on
gifts dost pour.
I am a blockhead: but Thou art of magic stone
the holder,
While I am only iron's core.
تون سَپڙُ، آءٌ سيڪڙو تون ڏاتارُ، آءٌ ڏوهه،
تُون پارس، آءٌ لوه، جي سڃي ته سونُ ٿِيان،
ڏاتارُ ته تون، ٻيا مڙيئي مڱڻا،
مِينهن مُندائتا وسڻان، سدا وَسِين تُون،
جي گهر اچين مُون، ته ميريائي مان لهان.
If Thou but touch this iron 'me', gold I should
be by reason.
Thou Giver art of gifts, the rest but wandering
beggars are.
There falls in its due season rain; but Thou in
every season
Dost shower They plenteous bounty far.
Oh, would'st Thou to my house but come,
All wealth I'd have and every sum.'
سُر بروو سنڌي
پهريون داستان
ڇا کي وڃيو ڇو، ٻيلي رهين ٻين جو؟
وٺ ڪنجڪ ڪريم جي، جڳ جو والي جو،
سَهُکو هوندو سو، جنهنجو عشق اللهَ سين.
XIX. THE JOY OF BELOVED
After what goest thou? Why dost thou remain
The servant of others?
Stirrup-leather lay hold of, the Merciful One's
E'en the Lord of the World's.
For certain that man will be happy whose love
Towards Allah is turned.
اڄ پڻ اَکڙينِ، سڄڻَ پنهنجا ساريا،
ڳلن تان ڳوڙهن جون بُوندون بس نه ڪن،
سَندي سڪ پِرين، لوڪ ڏِٺي تان نه لهي.
Today my poor eyes have remembered my friends
And the dropping of tears
Doth not cease from my cheeks. At the sight of
loved ones
My desire doth not die.
ماڻهو گهُرون مال، آءٌ سڀ ڏينهن گهُران سُپرين،
دُنيا تنهن دوست تان فِدا ڪريان في الحال،
ڪيو نامَ نِهالُ، مون کي محبوبَنِ جي.
Mankind covets wealth. But all the day long
Covet I my Belov'd.
I renounce the whole world for the sake of that
Friend
Whose name made me glad.
جڏهن پوي ياد، صحبت سپيرين جي،
فريادون فرياد، ناگَہَ وڃن نِڪريو.
When the memory comes of the love of that Friend
Sudden cries burst on cries.
ناز منجهاران نڪري جڏهن پرين ڪري ٿو پنڌ،
ڀونءِ پڻ بسم الله چئي، راه چمي ٿي رندُ،
اُڀيون گهڻي ادب سين وٺي حورون حيرت هنڌُ،
سائينءَ جو سؤڳَندُ، ساجن سَڀِنِئان سُهڻو.
In gracious emergence when walks the Belov'd
E'en earth itself sings:
'In God's name': and lo! On the tracks of his
feet
Are the road's kisses planted.
The houris astonied stand by in respect.
I swear by the Lord.
The face of Beloved's most lovely of all.
آدمِين اِخلاص، مٽائي ماٺو ڪيو،
ڪونه کائي ڪڏهين سندو ماڻهنِ ماس،
دلبر هن دنيا ۾ وڃي رهندو واسُ،
ٻيو سڀ لوڪ لباس، هڪ دل هوندو ڪو هڪڙو.
It's the way of the world
To alter love's virtue and change it to dross.
No one e'er eats
The flesh of mankind. In this world will be left
Only fragrant delight.
All the rest of mankind wear but friendship's
false cloak:
Only one or two are
Who are one with our heart. O Giver, vouchsafe
That friends present be.
ڏاترَ مون ڏيکاريو هوتُن جو حُضُورُ،
پِرين پرچڻَ جو ڪيو موٽائي مذڪورُ،
اِي دوستن دستورُ، جئن ڇِنان ڇِنن ڪينڪي.
On the tongues of my friends there is mention
once more That we're reconciled.
My friends have this way that, break I with
them,
They break not with me.
سُر بلاول
پهريون داستان
ڀيريون ڀيري ڀڃُ، هي جي منجهان پوريون،
ٻئي در ڪنهن مَ وڃُ، رِيءَ هاشميءَ هيڪڙي.
XX. GOD'S MERCY
The kettledrums are hollow: break them up.
Seek no door but the Holy Prophet's door.
He bears the loads of all who run for help
And is the stay of helpless folk and poor.
سَرَڻِنِ جا سوٺا، کڻي وسيلو ولَهن،
لُڏي ڪين لطيف چئي اڳيان لعلُ لکَن،
جت ڪوڙين ڪين ڪُڇن، اُتِ پاٻوهي پڌرو.
The Kindly Helper turns not face aside
When myriads seek his mercy, says Latif.
His suppliants stand in dumbness, million
massed,
And in his open smiling win relief.
تَڙِ تَڙِ ڪيم تَرسُ، سُر نهارج سڀرو،
ڏيندءِ لک لطيف چئي، راڄِ راهوءَ جي رَسُ،
وِلها جنهن وَهِيان ڪيا، پاڳ تنهنجي پسُ،
ڪوڙِن لاهي ڪَسُ، جهُ ڳالهائي ڳاٽُ کڻي.
At sundry landing-places do not halt:
Look for the easy bank within the mere.
The helper will you mint of money give.
Go thither, land of princely Rahu near.
سما تو سر ڇٽ، نات پاڳارا پُرس ٻيا
ڳهڻ تنهنجي ڳڃڙي، اچي جال جڳٽُ
جن جيهائي پٽُ، تن تيهائي بکيا.
Wathc for the turban of the Bounteous One,
Who made the luckless walthy, who destroys
The rust of want for million when he speaks
And lifts his head aloft to work such joys.
پَرِ ۾ اُڀو پاڻ، ساٿين سَڏَ ڪري،
تنهن لالن جي لاڏاڻ، سڀ لنگهيندا لڪيون.
Seren He stands, The Friend and Comforter,
Who calls to His companions. Every one
By help of that dear Comforter will cross
In safety land wherein the passes run.
ٻيو داستان
جانب شال جئين، تنهنجو ڪنين مدوم مَ سُڻيان!
اکين ۽ هنئين، ٻنِهين تاتِ تُنهنجي.
XXI. THE GUIDE
Live on, O Sweet one, live.
May mine ears never hear
An evil word of Thee.
Brought each to other near,
Mine eyes and heart combine
To speak of Thee and Thine.
جانب جئين شال، تنهنجو ڪنين مدوم مَ سُڻيان،
جنهن تي اچي ڪالهه، نالايق نوازيا.
Live on, O Sweet One, live.
May mine ears never hear
An evil word of Thee,
Of thee who didst appear
But yesterday to grace
My soul's unworthiness.
عربيءَ جهڙو آءٌ نه ڏسان ڪوءِ ڏِسن ۾
مُهَڙُ مڙني مُرسلين، سرس سندس شان،
’فکان قابَ قوسين اَو اَدنيٰ‘ اِيءُ مُيسر ٿيس
مڪان،
اَگي جو احسان، جنهن هادي ميڙيم ههڙو.
Like Him who Arab was
No one, nowhere I see.
In full forefront He stands
Where the Apostles be:
And He hath pride of place
In majesty and grace.
`Near, nearer came to Him
The Angel of the Lord
Than two bow's distance is'
Thus saith the Holy Word
Lo: this is the abode
In Heaven on Him bestowed
Almighty God be praised
Who Brought me such a Guide.
جيهس ڪونه جهان ۾ سِنڌ، سورت، هندهاڻ
در دانا مڱ مڱڻا، ٻئي جي ڪَڍ مَ ڪاڻ
پاٽوندر پاڻُ، حال ڏسي ڀالُ ڪري!
His like the world knows none,
Nor Sind nor Surat side;
Nor anywhere on earth
'Hath knowledge of such worth.
O beggar, go and beg
Before the Giver's door.
Seek favour of none else.
Gifts he himself doth pour:
He sees men's state and gives
Them mercy in their lives.
جو مَلَن کي مِهڻو، سوئي مون سردار،
پُٺيءَ لائي پنهنجا ساقي ٿيو سؤار،
آهي اَسَدَ الله جو اسان کي آڌار،
جابِرَ ذُوالفقار، هر دم آهي هٿ ۾.
My Lord and Master puts
The Mullas to their shame,
His horsemen set behind,
To head the host He came.
The Lion of the Lord
To us doth help afford.
And ever in His hand
He bears the mighty sword
That cleaves backbones of foes.
جُهڙَ تُنهنجي جهپِيا هزارين حاتَم،
ڪوجَهنِ سندا ڪم، تو ڪامل ريءَ ڪيرُ ڪري؟
His bounty's rich accord
A thousand Hatims' store
Hath darkened and made poor.
Without Thee, Perfect One, who can
Help, succour give to helpless man? |
