The greatest Urdu poet of the 20th century, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, was a committed communist and agnostic who spent time in prison for his activism in the years after Partition and eventually fled Pakistan altogether. A little while ago I picked up a copy of The Colors of my Heart, a collection of his poetry translated and published recently by a professor at the National Islamic University in India. No surprise: He wrote beautifully about the struggle against oppression, and also about compassion and love both romantic and not.
I've been thinking about Jack again a lot over the last couple of days. Today I woke up feeling slightly sick, and while I had to rally to go to a meeting in the office for a few hours, it was a temporary rally. Two words come to mind: malaise and melancholy. So this evening, while Steph goes to a party I was looking forward to but am definitely not up for, I've been reading Faiz.
"My Companion, My Friend"
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
If I was sure the weariness in your heart
The sadness in your eyes and the burning in your breast
Can be dispelled by my comforting words, my love
Were my words of solace a medic which
could bring back to life your desolate and extinguished mind
Wishing away the stain of humiliation from your forehead
and cure your ailing youth
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
Day through night, morning through evening
I would spending whiling away your pain
Singing to you light, melodious songs
Of spring, gardens and waterfalls
Of sunrise, of the moon and the planets
I would tell you tales of beauty and love
I'd tell you how
Unresponsive bodies of proud, snow-moulded women
Melt under the heat of passionate hands
How the stable contours of a familiar face
Change shape in an instant
How the crystal-bright visage of a beloved
Flushes red with a sip of the ruby red wine
How the rose branch offers itself to the flower-picker
How the night's mansion becomes fragrant
I would sing to you, go on singing for you
Weaving songs for you, always around you
But my songs are not the cure for your grief
Melodies may not be surgeons, though they
can be friends and sympathizers
Songs may not be lancets, though
They can be a salve for pain at least
There's no help for your affliction but the knife
And that cruel blood-letter is not in my power
Not in any earthly being's power
Except you yourself, you, only you
I've been thinking about Jack again a lot over the last couple of days. Today I woke up feeling slightly sick, and while I had to rally to go to a meeting in the office for a few hours, it was a temporary rally. Two words come to mind: malaise and melancholy. So this evening, while Steph goes to a party I was looking forward to but am definitely not up for, I've been reading Faiz.
"My Companion, My Friend"
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
If I was sure the weariness in your heart
The sadness in your eyes and the burning in your breast
Can be dispelled by my comforting words, my love
Were my words of solace a medic which
could bring back to life your desolate and extinguished mind
Wishing away the stain of humiliation from your forehead
and cure your ailing youth
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
Day through night, morning through evening
I would spending whiling away your pain
Singing to you light, melodious songs
Of spring, gardens and waterfalls
Of sunrise, of the moon and the planets
I would tell you tales of beauty and love
I'd tell you how
Unresponsive bodies of proud, snow-moulded women
Melt under the heat of passionate hands
How the stable contours of a familiar face
Change shape in an instant
How the crystal-bright visage of a beloved
Flushes red with a sip of the ruby red wine
How the rose branch offers itself to the flower-picker
How the night's mansion becomes fragrant
I would sing to you, go on singing for you
Weaving songs for you, always around you
But my songs are not the cure for your grief
Melodies may not be surgeons, though they
can be friends and sympathizers
Songs may not be lancets, though
They can be a salve for pain at least
There's no help for your affliction but the knife
And that cruel blood-letter is not in my power
Not in any earthly being's power
Except you yourself, you, only you
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