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ٻيو داستان
پاٺ پهرينءَ رات جو ڳڙه پاسي ڳايو،
ٿيو گوڙ گرنار ۾ ته ڪو آديسي آيو،
سالڪ سازَ سُرودَ سان ڪي جو ڪمايو،
ٻيجل ٻولايو، ته سرِ سُوالي آهيان.
The first night came.
Beside the fort the man of music sang
And in Girnar a loud commotion rang:
' Some holy mendicant is here.' The sage
Worked wonders with his lute and zither string.
' Thy head I ask for, king', did Bijal sing.
ٻيجل کي ٻيءَ رات ۾ سَڏايو سُلطان،
اَڳي ڪونه آئيو، ڀير تُنهنجي ڀانَ،
جانيان جيءُ جدا ڪيو، طرح تنبي جي تان،
مون وٽ مال مَتاعُ جي، ڪمي آهي ڪانه،
توکي ڏيان مڱڻا، رُوحَ رُچند دانَ،
مِيان مهربان، چوري چنگُ چئج ڪي.
There came the second night.
The Sultan summoned Bijal, told him 'Ne'er
Hath such as thou, Musician, ere come here.
At thy pipe's tune, stands life from soul apart.
Much wealth have I in goods, there's nought I
lack.
I'll give thee gifts that will delight thy
heart.
Come, wothy Sir, tune up: let music start.'
راجا کي ٽينءَ رات جو ٻڌايو ٻيجل،
سَوين آهن سنسار ۾ ٻيا پڻ داتا دَلَ،
پر آيس من اُڇل، تيلانهين تو گهرين.
The third night came
When Bijal told the King this tale of song:
' While generous men on earth are hundreds
strong
Indeed, by some mind-fancy I was led
To thee, and to thy house am come instead.'
چارڻ چوٿينءَ رات ۾، ’آءُ نچ آئين جيءُ،‘
تنهنجو قدم پدم نه پاڙيان، جي تون ٿئين جميع،
دان دَلُوچا دل وڻيا، وٺي راضي ٿيءُ،
هينئر ڏيانءِ ٿو هيءُ، ٻيو صبح سوايو ڏيانءِ.
The fourth night came.
' Welcome, O welcome, Bard' the king did say,
' Not with uncounted wealth thy footsteps' way
Would I compare, if thou but happy be.
Of rich abundant gifts take thou thy fill.
These presents now I give thee: there are more
Tomorrow I shall add to swell the store.'
پلٽيو پنجينءَ رات ۾ رپو سون سبيل،
پلنگ، پٿرڻيون، پالڪيون، نَوَ لک ناڻي نيل،
چي داتا وٺان نه دانَ کي وئُن ڦيرائي فِيلَ،
آکِيم جو اصيلَ، سو سر ڏي ته سُرهو ٿئين.
The fifth night came.
Great wealth of silver did no Bijal pour:
Came couches, cushions, palanquins and more,
Nine lakhs of money and nonillions 'er.
But Bijal said ' The gifts are not for me,
O generous one. The elephants take back.
What first I asked for, give to me, thy head,
That thou to happiness itself be wed.'
ڇهينءَ رات ڇِڪائيو سالڪ سوري ساز،
ڳايائين گرنار ۾ ڪري آڳَہ سين آوازُ،
صبح جو، سيد چوي، راجا توسين رازُ،
سڀاڻي سرفرازُ، مِيان ڪندو منگتي.
The sixth night came.
The sage plucked strings and folk's attention
drew.
Within Girnar he sang: the strong notes flew.
Tomorrow (saith the Sayid) thou'lt please the
King,
Who will, Musician, thee to honour bring.
سَوَ سِرَن پائي، جي تَنُد برابر توريان،
اُٽل اوڏاهين ٿئي، جيڏانهن ٻيجل ٻولائي،
سَکِڻو هَڏُ آهي، سِرَ ۾ سَڃَڻُ ناهِ ڪي.
III. THE KING AND THE MINSTREL (III)
King.
' If on the scales an hundred heads I place
To weigh the whole against thy music,
The weight to that scale fails where Bijal
sings.
Mine head's but empty bone-space:
There's no strength within it.'
جو لاڳو لڳي تند سين سوئي پلئه پاءِ،
مون کي مَ موٽاءِ، آءٌ آڳاهون آئيو.
Minstrel.
' Put in my robe what's tuned to music's
strings:
Send me not back. I came at earliest minute.
مٿو مٿانُئنءِ گهوريان مٿو تو مٿان،
سو مون ٿئي نه هَٿان، جنهن تون لايقُ مڱڻا.
King.
' Mine head, o'er thine, for thee I'd sacrifice.
O man of music, what thy worth convinces
Thou get'st not from mine hands.
ٻيلي ٻئي پارَ جا مون نيڻين هڻي نهاريا،
چوري رکيم چِت ۾ ڏِسِن جا ڏاتار،
هي سِرُ توهان ڌار، ٻِيجهي ڪنهن نه ٻوليو.
Minstrel.
' This way, that way I searched and with mine
eyes
I looked on other princes.
Within my mind I fixed of other lands
The princely givers, none within my reck
Save thee endowed with will to yield his head.'
مَرُ ته آئين مڱڻا مام پروڙي مون،
جيڪا ڳالهه ڳالهائي سا سڀ سمجهيسُون،
تنهن ۾ تُسجُ تون، جيڪي پوي پٽَ ۾.
King.
' Welcome thou art, O man of music.
Thy meaning's drift I knew. What thy tongue sped
I comprehend completely, all thy words.
What falleth to the ground
Be pleased to take.'
ٽيئي پرچيا پاڻ ۾: تَندُ، ڪٽارو، ڪَنڌُ،
تَنهِن جِهو ٻيو ناه ڪي، جو تو چارڻ ڪيو پَنڌُ،
هي شڪر اَلحمدُ، جو مٿو گهريءِ مڱڻا.
Sayid.
All three in tune were wed,
The music's chords, the dagger and the nack.
King.
'For no such prize, O man of music,
Hast thou, ere this, made journey. God be
praised.
O man of music, that thou sought's the head.'
ڪڍي ڪِيرتَ ڪِيِنرو واڄو وِلاتِي،
هَنئين تند حضور ۾ تنهن پارِسَ پيراتي،
ڏسندي ئي ڏياچ کي ظاهر ٿيو ذاتي،
ڪڍي تنهن ڪاتي، وڌو ڪَرٽُ ڪَپار ۾.
Sayid.
Fine instruments he took of cunning sound,
The skilful master of music,
And from the start in motion set the chords
Before the kingly presence. When he gazed
Diach at once saw clear
And manifest the meaning's power.
گُلُ ڇِنو گرنار جو، پِٽڻ ٿيون پِٽين،
سَوين سورٺ جهڙيون اُڀِيون اوسارين،
چوٽا چارڻ هٿ ۾ سُر سِينگاريو ڏين،
ٻايون ٻاڏائينِ، ته راجا رات رم گيو.
The singer drew the knife and plunged it deep
Within Diach's skull. The flower
Of Girnar's plucked: and weep
The wailing women. Hundreds like Sorath
Stand up and moan. The head, with crowning lock
Arranged, they give the man of music:
And bitter is the wailing women's cry:
' Last night the King did die.'
وائي
ڏنو راوَ ڏياچ،
هي سر صاحب تان صدقو.
ڇڏي هليو هتِهِين راڻيون پنهنجا راڄ،
هي سر صاحب تان صدقو.
آگهيو دَرِ الله جي، ڪوڙين پُنَس ڪاڄَ،
هي سر صاحب تان صدقو.
مَڱي وڌو مڱڻي ڪهي ساڻ ڪماچ،
هي سر صاحب تان صدقو.
اديون عبداللطيف چئي، ٿيس ڪم سَڪاج،
هي سر صاحب تان صدقو.
III. THE KING AND THE MINSTREL (IV)
Diach the King hath yielded up his head:
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
And left his kingdom and the queens he wed:
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
He found acceptance under Allah's door;
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
His million-numbered needs fulfilled, told o'er.
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
With bowstring-song his head the Singer sought;
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
His works, O sisters, to good endings wrought.
(To God, to God a sacrifice.)
Abul Latif it is
Who makes these harmonies.
سُر کاهوڙي
پهريون داستان
مون سي ڏٺا ما، جنهَين ڏٺو پرينءَ کي،
ڪري نه سگهان ڪا، اُنهن سندي ڳالهڙي.
IV. THE WANDERERS
O mother, I saw the folk who saw
The man I love. Nowise, no way
Can I describe them. 'Tis their law
In rags and dust to pass along.
They do not midst the foolish throng
Talk openly. Perfection's spell
Binds them my lover's tale to tell.
ڀڪلِيا ڀڻن، دلقِ گڏيو ڌوڙ ۾
ڳالهيون ڳهلي لوڪ سان پڌر پئي نه ڪن،
ڪامل آهي تن، مون پريان جي ڳالهڙي.
Their loins betimes Khahoris girt,
And wandering off amongst the hills
One made themselves with earthy dirt.
To torture they their bodies gave:
Amidst the rocks they found their grave.
On barren hill there stands a town
Of which to them the trace was known.
کاهوڙينِ کڻي، ساجهر ٻَڌا سَندرا،
ڏوريندي ڏونگرين ڪيو پاڻُ پَڻي،
ڏکين ڏيِلُ هڻي، ڇيهه لڌائون ڇَپرين.
The thither went and left tilled land
And store of grain, upon their quest
To be of Lahut. Dust of sand
Descended on them of the town
That stands upon the barren down.
Behind them much of sleep thy put
And made them townsmen of Lahut.
پيو جن پَرو، گَنجي ڏُونگر گام جو،
ڇڏي کيٽ کرو، لوچي لاهوتي ٿيا.
For they that certain knowledge won
Where stands on barren hill the town.
Behind them empty thoughts thy put
And made them townsmen of Lahut.
سُر رامڪلي
پهريون داستان
نُوري ۽ ناري، جوڳيئڙا جهان ۾،
ٻَري جِنَ ٻاري، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
V. THE HOLY MEN (I)
In the world are Jogis who worship light:
In the world are Jogis who worship fire.
Without the holy men who lit the fire, the holy
men,
I cannot live.
سُتي سيج هُياسِ، مون کي آه اُٿاريو،
جَنهين جاڳاياس، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I was asleep on my couch: a deep sigh woke me.
Without the holy men who woke me up, the holy
men,
I cannot live.
ڳوليان ۽ ڳنڍيانِ، ويا ويراڳي نڪري،
صحبت جا سنديانِ، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I look for them and fain would join them.
The Bairagis went and took themselves away.
Without the solace of their company, the holy
men,
I cannot live.
مران، مٿو پٽيان، نِهاريان نيڻانِ،
سخن جي سندانِ، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I die: I beat my head: I search with eyes.
Without the Holy words they speak, the holy men,
I cannot live.
قَدَمَ ڪاپڙين جا لڳا ۾ لاهُوتَ،
جنهين سين ياقوتَ، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
The footprints of the holy men are in Lahut.
Without the ruby that they hold, the holy men,
I cannot live.
صبح سِڱڙِيون کڻي وِيا وَڄائي وِيرَ،
ڏوريان ڏوريان نه لهان، تن بيراڳن بَهِيرَ،
جن جي آسڻ منجهه عنبيرَ، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُن ري.
Those who are great took horns at morn and blew
them.
I search and search for the Bairagis line.
In their holy seat they keep the sacred
ambergris.
Without the holy men who have it, holy men,
I cannot live.
پسيو آسڻ اُنجا اَچي نه آرام،
ڪِينَرَ ڪُٺي آهيان، تنهِين جي تمامُ،
مون کي ٿيو ماتام، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I saw their holy seat and am not pacified.
The music of the holy men hath slain me quite.
Sad weariness of heart is come upon me.
Without the holy men, the holy men,
I cannot live.
پسيو آسڻ اُن جا اُڌمان اچن،
ڪِينَرَ ڪاپَڙيُنِ جا صبح ٿا ته سُڄن،
جي رائي منجهه رڙهن، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I saw their holy seat: my spirit leapt in
fervour.
The music of the holy men at morning is not
heard.
The holy men who creep and crawl upon the sand,
Without the holy men, the holy men,
I cannot live.
پسيو آسڻ اُن جا ٻانهنِ وِجهان وات،
هوءَ جي ڪَهِيا ڏي قلات، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُنِ ري.
I saw their holy seat and put mine arm in mouth.
Without the holy men who trudged kelatwards,
Without the holy men, the holy men,
I cannot live.
وٽَنِ ويٺي آهيان، ڏِسيو ڪين ڏِسانِ،
تنهين جِهو ناهِ ڪي، سا جا سونهن سندانِ،
پَسِيو ڪي نه پسانِ، آءٌ نه جيئندي اُن ري.
I sit with them. I look but do not see:
There is no beauty like the beauty that is
theris.
With all my looking there is nought I see.
Without the holy men, the holy men,
I cannot live.
ٻيو داستان
ڪيم ڪاپڙين جي پهرئين ڏينهن پَروُڙَ،
ته سگها ساعت نه هڪڙي، چارئي پَهَر چُورُ،
سدا، سيّد چوي، سناسي ۾ سور،
جوڳي ساڻ ضرور، لِڪا ڀُڻنِ لوڪ ۾.
V. THE HOLY MEN (II)
The first day brought me wisdom's gain
That not for one brief moment's spell
Do holy men with health feel well.
No! daytime's four long watches tell
For them a tale of crushing pain.
So sings the Sayid, Jogis roam
Amongst the people quietly.
ويهي ويراڳين جو ٻئي ڏينهن ڏٺم حال،
ته ڌاڳا ڌُوڙِ ڀَڪُلِيا، جوانن جِندُ زَوالُ،
اُن ڄاڻي ڄٽائون ڇوڙيون، چوٽا چڱيءَ چالَ،
ويچرا وجود جي ڪنهن سان ڪن نه ڳالهه،
نانگا ٿيو نهال، لِڪا ڀُڻنِ لوڪَ ۾.
Next day I sat and did behold
The form of live Bairajis Keep:
How o'er their threads the diustclouds heap.
And ruin of their lives is cheap.
Their knowing hands the strings unrolled
And fashioned topknots skillfully.
But they of their own agaency,
Unhappy men, with none make speech.
For Nangas thus to gladness reach
And roam midst people quietly.
ٽئَين ڏينهن ٽمڪائين، دونهيون دائرن ۾،
ميڙيو ڪَڙڄ ڪاٺيون جوڳي جَلائين،
سنديون کامَڻَ خبرون اَديسين آهين،
ڳُجهه نه ڳالهائين، لِڪا ڀُڻَنِ لِوڪَ ۾.
The third day on their sacred seats
They let the fire's dull smoulder glow.
The Jogis gathered sticks and so
Made firebrands on the fire to throw.
Adesis know the fire that eats
With burning pain. No secret's heart
By spoken word do they impart:
They roam midst people quietly.
چوٿين ڏينهن چوگان ۾، ڪِنهن جنهن پہِ پيا،
اَندر اَديسين کي اَچن جوش جِها،
سامي سونُ ٿيا، لِڪا ڀُڻَنِ لوڪ ۾.
The fourth day came: in open place
A firm resolve they somehow made.
Within their hearts strong urgings played.
The Swamis in full worth arrayed
Are merged in a golden grace
And roam midst people quietly.
ڪنهن جنهن پُورَ پچائيا پنجين ڏينهن پئي،
اَندر اَديسين کي سورن شاخ ڪئَي،
محبت جي ميدان ۾ لاشڪ پيا لهي،
ساري رات، سيد چئي، تن گوندر منجهه گئي،
ڪريو سيڻ سهي، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
The fifth day came and found them fancy-tied.
Within th'. Adesis burgeoned sprouting pain.
Yet, willing, they descended to love's plain.
Night passed in torture (thus the Sayid's
refrain)
Its whole night's passing. But their sense
descried
The friends who wish them well. They roam
Amongst the people quietly.
پيا ڪنهن پرياڻ ۾ ڇهين ڏينهن ڇڻي،
اَندر اَديسين کي ڌُرِيان آه ڌڻي،
راضي تنهن تي روح ۾ جا واحد کي وڻي،
پنيو پنج ڪڻي، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
The sixth day came. Some reverie held them fast.
Within 'th Adesis God's prime urging rolls.
What cheers the One that too doth cheer their
souls.
They beg in alms what five poor fingers seize
And roam midst people quietly.
ستين ڏينهن، سيد چئي، ڌاڳا ڌوتائون،
اُڀي اَلک سامهون ٻانهون ٻڌائون،
روح پنهنجو رام سين پر ۾ پوتائون،
وڏي ڪنهن ولات جا اُهڃ آندائون،
کڻيو کِدائون، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
They washed their threads upon the seventh day,
The Sayid says, and stood with folded hands
Before God Indescribable. To strands
Of Rama somewise secretly the bands
Of their own lives they bound. Great, far away
And distant was the country whence they brought
The signs they brought. They lift their
blanket-rugs
And roam midst people quietly.
اَٺين ڏينهن اُڀي ويا جوڳي جاءِ بجاءِ،
سا پَرِ سامي سکيا، جا پر جوڳ جڳاءِ،
ويروتار وُجود ۾ ان کي رام رهيو ئي آه،
ڪنهن ڪمائيءَ لاءِ، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
The eighth day came. The Jogis rose and went
From place to place. The Swamis learnt the way
That fits for Union. Ever Ram doth stay
Within their being's self. For holy pay
They roam midst people quietly.
نائين ڏينهن نيڻانِ، اوجاڳي اُجاريا،
سٻاجهي ٻاجهه ڪئي سڀائي سيڻانِ،
ڏاتر ڏاڻ ڏياريا ڪمائيءَ جا ڪيڻانِ،
جتي نظر ناه جو اُتي اوتارانِ،
اِهي اُهڃاڻانِ، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
The ninth day came and vigils lit their eyes.
He-who-is-Mercy all his mercy showed.
The Giver earning's gifts on them bestowed.
Where eyes see nothing there they make abode.
These are ascetics' holy signs. They roam
Amidst the people quietly.
ڏهين ڏينهن ڏِک ٿيا، پرين پاٻوهيا پس،
ورق جو وصال جو، سو واري ڪيائون وس،
لڌائون، لطيف چئي، سندو گُروءَ گَسُ،
جوڳين کٽيو جس، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
Tenth day's anointing came with holy oil.
And lo! Our friends are happy. Of their power
They turned the page of God's own union o'er
And found the Path, Latif says, guru's dower.
The Jogis won the worth of holy toil
And roam midst people quietly.
ڪارهين ڏينهن ڪرم، وريو ويراڳين جو،
جوڳن جاٽائون ڀيٽيون هلي ويا حرمِ،
دائم جهليو دم، لڪا ڀڻن لوڪ ۾.
There was fulfillment on the eleventh day
Of all Bairagis practised. Holy Shrines
The Jogis visited and where there shines
The seat of worship. Holding breath alway
They roam midst people quietly.
ٻارهين ڏينهن ٻئي، من مرادون پنيون،
جوڳي انهي جاءِ کي ٿي سڪيا سڀيئي،
سمانا سيئي، جي گُرَ گڏجي آئيا.
The twelfth day brought achievement's double
gain.
All on the pilgrimage had wishes set.
The Jogis won full honour, these who met
Their guru-master and are back again.
ٽيون داستان
سامِينِ ثَمَرُ سُورَ، گوندر گَبرِيُنِ ۾،
جَڙي ٻڌائون جان سين پيغامن جا پُور،
آديسي اَسُور، وڄائي واٽ ٿيا.
V. THE HOLY MEN (III)
The Swamis panniers are of sorrows full.
Within their bedding grief is packed and rolled.
They bound their lives to reverie's deep lore.
The Adesis blew their horns at early morn
And went away. Some kind of sorrow's lot
ڪو جو سور سناسئين جئن وهلور وتن،
اَٺئي پهر اَلک جو ڪو وڍ ويراڳينِ،
سدا صاحب ڀَئي ٿا ڪاپڙِي ڪَنبن،
جي راتو ڏينهن رمن، هلو ته تڪيا پَسون تن جا.
Sanyasis have, that they go strickenly:
And smitten of the wound of God, Who is
Beyond description's power, Bairagis rell
The whole day's space and eight long watches
through.
The holy men aye tremble at the Lord.
Come, let us look on the abodes of them
Who pass the day and night in wandering.
ڪو جو سور سناسئين جئن وتن ۾ وهلور،
ٻاهر ٻاڦ نه نڪري گهٽ اندر گهايا گهُورَ،
چت جنهين جا چُور، هلو ته تڪيا پسون تن جا.
Some kind of sorrow's lot Sanyasis have
That they go stricken. Yet no breath escapes
Outside to show their inward wound of thought.
تڪيا پسون تن جا ههڙا جنهين حال،
لاهوتي، لطيف چئي، موهيا نه ڪنهن مال،
تن سامين جيءَ سنڀال، منهنجو چت چڱو ڪيو.
Come, let us look on the abodes of them
Whose minds are crushed and broken. Let us see
Th' abodes of them who live in such a plight.
The people of Lahut, thus saith Latif,
Are not misled by any worldly gear.
The Swamis care hath made my thoughts worth
while.
چوٿون داستان
جي ڀائين جوڳي ٿيان، ته سڱ سڀيئي ٽوڙ
جي ڄاوا نه ڄاپندا، جيءَ تنهين سين جوڙ
ته تون پهچين توڙ، محبت جي ميدان ۾.
V. THE HOLY MEN (IV)
If thou dost think 'I will a Jogi be',
Break off all ties that link thee with thy kind.
Unite thy life to them who ne'er were born
Nor e'er will be, that thou thine end may find
Upon the plain of Love.
جي ڀائين جوڳي ٿيان، ته طمع ڇڏ تمام،
گولا جي گولن جا تن جو ٿي غلام،
صبر جي سرواهيءَ سان ڪر ڪيني کي قتلام،
ته نانگا تنهنجو نام، لکجي لاهُوتَ ۾.
If thou dost think ' I will a Jogi be',
Kill all ambition's hope. Become the slave
Of them who're slaves of slaves. With
patience-sword
Destroy all malice utterly, that so
Thy name in Lahut thou may'st then engrave,
O Nanga's naked soul.
جي ڀائين جوڳي ٿيان، ته من پُوري مَنجِهه مار،
دائم دونهين دل ۾، مَنَ ۾ مالها وارِ،
سَہُ سڀَڪا آرِ، آگي جي ادب سين.
If thou dost think ' I will a Jogi be',
Kill worldly thought and hide it in the soil.
Light in thine heart the dully-glowing fire.
In mind count rosary's beads: with humble toil
Bear all God's little ways.
جي ڀائين جوڳي ٿيان، ته ڪين پيالو پيءُ،
ناه نهاري هٿ ڪر، آءٌ اُتي نَہَ ٿيءُ،
ته سندو وحدت ويءُ، طالب توڙان ماڻئين.
If thou dost think 'I will a Jogi be',
Drain cup of Nothingness and, sitting, gaze
On Nothingness itself. Lay hold of it.
('Where there is I: that Nothingness displays')
So, Seeker, full thy joy of pasture be
With God, One, perfect One.
جوڳي هُونِ نه جِئيرا، پائي جوڳ ۾ جيءُ،
هاريا هُن ڪنن سين سڻ سنيهو هيءُ،
وڃائي وجود کي پاڻان اسي ٿيءُ،
هڏهين ڪونهي هيءُ، اَسارو آءٌ چوي.
Jogis have no hold on life.
Put on Joga: cease to live.
O Hark! With these ears hear
The message that I give.
Self-ness destroy and from the self
Lay self aside. No life hath 'This',
No life at all. 'Tis folls
Whose 'I' in talking is.
جان تان جوڳي ٿيءُ، نه ته نرجا وئن نڪري،
ڇو ٿو ڪن ڪپائيين؟ جو نه سهندين سيءُ،
ڀڄ پراهون ٿِي، متان ٻيا لڄائيين.
Be Jogi whilst thou hast the power
Else, shameless one, avaunt from here!
Why dost thou bore thine ears
If cold thou canst not bear?
گولا جي گراه جا، جوٺا سي جوڳي،
ڦٽل اوءِ ڦوڳي، جنهين شڪم سانڍيو.
Flee hence! Go thither! Far away!
Lest others thou do bring to shame.
Men who are slaves to food
Are Jogis false in name.
هي جي ڪَنَ ڪپار ۾، سوڌو سي نه سڻن،
اَندر جي آهن، سُڻ سنيهو اُن سين.
Immersed in belly-needs the throng
Is worthless scum. No sound comes clear
To skull-placed ears: then list
To sounds with inward ear.
پنجون داستان
مون طُورِسينا سندا سَناسينِ
’طالِبُ الَموليٰ مُذَڪَرُ‘ اُيءُ ڪلام ڪيائون
ڪنِ،
سکڻ کي سڀين پرين ٻڃي ڏٺائون ٻَنِ،
اَلف اَديسين، چونڊي رکيو چت ۾.
V. THE HOLY MEN (V)
Like to the pilgrimage to Sinai's mount
Are the Sanyasis flexed knees.
Within their ears they laid this holy word
'The Seeker after God is male.'
They cast aside, of full intent each wise,
Whate'er there may in learning be.
Only the letter ' Alif' the Adesis bore
In mind for constant utterance.
آيا سي اُلوهيت ۾ لاهوت لنگهيو جن،
منجهان تن جُسَنِ، حرف نه سڄي هڪڙو.
They who have passed Lahut reached Ulwahet:
And not one word from them escapes.
نااُميدي نِجهِرو، عدم اوتارونِ،
رضا راڄ سندون، مور نه مڱن ڪي ٻيو.
Where lives despair, there is the place they
live.
The huts they have are nothingness.
The will of God their order is: they beg
For not one single morsel else.
کڻيو تڪبر تڪيا جيڪي ٿا هلن،
موڙها سي نه لهن، ملي راه لطيف چئي.
Filled with a vain conceit, folk seek their
homes:
But such are muddled, saith Latif.
They do not find them and they lose their way.
ڇهون داستان
ڪنهن جنهن ڪُٺا ڪاتَ، جئن سامي مور نه سَنَرا،
ڏينهان ڏکي ڏيلَ ۾، سُورَ سڄائي رات،
جوڳين سندي ذات، جيجان آه جڏائڙي.
V. THE HOLY MEN (VI)
By knife of some kind are the Swamis slain
So that they know no happy life at all.
By day their bodies ache and all night long
They suffer pain. Hard is the life, my dear.
سانجهيءَ رهن سمهي، وچينءَ ويٺا هُونِ،
مهيسي مُنهن پانهنجو ڌاران ڌوڙِ نه ڌُونِ،
وِهاڻي واٽن تي پاسا کوڙيو پُونِ،
ڪنهين کي نه چُونِ، ته اسين اَديسي آهيون.
Lived by the Jogi's kind. They go to sleep
At evening time. But they are sitting up
For mid-time's prayer and they who worship Shiv
Wash not their faces, save it be with dust.
By dawn they're settled by the road-way's side.
To none this speech they utter: 'We Adesis are.'
آديسين اَدب، آهي اَکڙين ۾،
نَسَبُ تن جو ناه ڪو نڪو اُن حسبِ،
سامين کي سڀين پرين روح ۾ رهيو ربّ،
ريءَ لانگوٽيءَ لب، پاڇي ڪن نه پاڻ لَئه.
Within Adesis eyes dwells humbleness.
They have no pedigree, no list of kin.
In every way the Lord abides in Swamis' souls.
Except a loin cloth, nought for self they keep.
پوڄا ڪارڻ پاڻ کي شرڪ شيطاني ۽ شر،
پوڄا جوڳو پاڻ ڌڻي، ٻيو پيرُ، نه پيغمبر،
پاپي پوڄارا پِيرن جا، ٻيا بتن جا بدتر،
جن واٽون وِرِ سڄِي وَرُ، نڀاڳن ناحق کي وڌو.
For worship's sake they practise heresy,
Know lore of demons and the things of ill.
But of the Lord alone true worship is.
There's none of pir or prophet. They do sin
Who worship pirs, and worse than these are they
Who worship idols, those poor luckless folk
From path misled who grasped untruthfulness.
پوڄا ڪارِ مَ پاڻ کي تون مومن من موچار،
جي پوڄا ڪارِن پاڻ کي سي ڪافر آهن منهن ڪار،
پٽيا، پاپي، پيٽ ڪُتا، بيحد بڇا ۽ بدڪار،
اُن تي آفت عذاب جي ۽ باريءَ جي ڀُلڪارَ،
پوڄا پروردگار، ٻاجهون ٻئي ڪنهن کي نه جُڙي.
Self worship not, thou faithful, pure of heart.
They who do this believe not. Let disgrace
Their faces blacken! For they are accurst.
They're sinners, dogs to belly tied, and foul
In evil-doing with no bounds. On them
Affliction's curse falls, and the wrath of God.
Of none but God is any worship meet.
تون ڪئن کڻي پاڻ تي، پِٽيا ايڏو پاپ!
جو پوڄا ڪاريو پاڻ کي پيو اَڀارين آپ،
ڪي پڏائين پاڻ کي ۽ ڪي پنهنجو باب،
صاحب جو سراپ، رک ته لاڳ لعنت جو نه لهين.
O soul accurst, how brought'st upon thyself
So great a sin, of self the worship made?
To get thyself extolled? In part thou dost
Thyself extol, in part thy sire extol.
Keep fear of God lest curse be thy reward.
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