نوحہ اب کسی دل میں نہیں کربِ خزاں اب کسی لب پہ ن…

Now no heart has the pain of autumn
Now there is no swelling on any lips.
The shroud is still the dead body of the days.
O the noha of my walls!

The reds are still yellow and soft
The dust of time is on the night.
Wine is a drink of wine.
The bar is closed, neither the Ummah nor the Messenger

This is the same season of eyes.
He is the time of separation.
Deserts and doors are still terrifying.
Love is still a work of falling

Wire wire is still there, Parahani Gul
Sunbul branch is under lightning
The burg is yellow, the garden is fascinated.
The nightingale is cold and inhuman.

The dark sky has spread far away.
What should I tell about the night of prison?
Still the chains are in the neck, shackles
The ankle is still in the feet.

Yesterday, the Muharram of mystery of speech.
Today they are all in the world.
The houses where there was a noise of feeling
Today is the burdens of voice and sound

There are colors, not a beautiful picture
There are words, not nature of writing
The scene is now without an idol
Art is not the pain of any pain.

And if art comes somewhere, look
For the sake of the defeated, it's a bad thing.
A friend of Kidhab, a rival of truth
Confusing packer of meaning and word

Those who were called the artists of the public
Salute to whom even Afaq used to say
For the sake of position and demand
Auctioned the greatness of art.

Those who were there till yesterday in Adiban Shaheer
Whose thoughts were arrows and arms
Selling the grief of Pirates today.
Became the porch of Shah

The streets and markets are very deserted
What do they know about the sorrows of time?
They decorate in their own house
The court of my sick ego

Blood is called the color of Hannah
Ah is called dance of sound
Silent lips are called words
Humidity is called cold air

They bind the wounds of life as flowers.
Tears are made to be the Najam of Sehr.
Happy after being at the death of Anboh
We tie a man as a reflection of a tree.

Now where is that first manifesto of art?
Art is the river of Kakh and Kasur.
Look at the charisma of art sellers!
The work of the government vs the democracy.

Still the surrounding of the faces is on the face
There is still a haunt of a far away.
Before everything is erased
Bring the living message of Ehsas

Now no heart has the pain of autumn
Now there is no swelling on any lips.
The shroud is still the dead body of the days.
O the noha of my walls

(Zaheer Kashmiri)