شو پنہاور و نیچہ

مرغی ز آشیانہ بہ سیر چمن پریدخاری ز شاخ گل بتن نازکش خلید

A bird flew from its nest and ranged about the garden; its soft breast was pierced by a rose-thorn.

بد گفت فطرت چمن روزگار رااز درد خویش و ہم ز غم دیگران تپید

It reviled the nature of Time’s garden; it throbbed with its own pain and pain of others.

داغی ز خون بی گنہی لالہ را شمرداندر طلسم غنچہ فریب بہار دید

It thought the tulip was branded with the blood of innocents; in the closed bud it saw the guile of spring.

گفت اندرین سرا کہ بنایش فتادہ کجصبحی کجا کہ چرخ درو شامہا نچید

It asked if in this world, with its foundation wrongly laid, there was a single morning into which Time had not built an evening;

نالید تا بہ حوصلۂ آن نوا طرازخون گشت نغمہ و ز دو چشمش فرو چکید

And it wept so much that song turned to blood in its throat and dripped as tears from its eyes.

سوز فغان او بدل ہدہدی گرفتبا نوک خویش خار ز اندام او کشید

From the cries of burning woe a hoopoe’s heart caught fire. The hoopoe with his beak drew forth the thorn from its body.

گفتش کہ سود خویش ز جیب زیان بر آرگل از شکاف سینہ زر ناب آفرید

Saying, ‘Get the profit out of loss: The rose has created pure gold by rending her breast.

درمان ز درد ساز اگر خستہ تن شویخوگر بہ خار شو کہ سراپا چمن شوی

If thou art wounded, make the pain thy remedy. Accustom thyself to thorns that thou mayst become entirely one with the garden.