Subh-e-Aazaadii
Ye daagh daagh ujaalaa, ye shab-gaziida sahar,
Vo intizaar thaa jis-kaa, ye vo sahar to nahiiN,
Ye vo sahar to nahiiN jis-kii aarzu lekar
Chale the yaar ke mil-ja`egi kahiiN na kahiN
Falak ke dasht meN taroN kii aakhiri manzil,
KahiN to hogaa shab-e sust mauj kaa sahil,
KahiN to jaake rukegaa safiina-e-gham-e-dil.
JawaaN lahu kii pur-asraar shaahrahoN se
Chale jo yaar to daaman pe kitne hath paRe;
Diyaar-e-husn kii be-sabr khwaabgaahoN se
Pukaarti-rahiiN baahen, badan bulaate-rahe;
Bahut 'aziiz thii lekin rukh-e-sahar ki lagan,
Bahut qariin thaa hasiinaN-e-nuur kaa daaman, ,
Subuk subuk thii tamannaa, dabii dabii thii thakan.
Sunaa hai ho bhii chukaa hai firaaq-e-zulmat-o-nuur,
Sunaa hai ho bhii chukaa hai visaal-e-manzil-o-gaam;
Badal-chukaa hai bahut ahl-e-dard kaa dastuur,
Nishaat-e-vasl halaal o 'azab-e-hijr haraam.
Jigar kii aag, nazar kii umang, dil kii jalan,
kisii pe chaara-e-hijraaN kaa kuchh asar hii nahiiN.
KahaaN se aa'ii nigaar-e-sabaa, kidhar ko ga'ii?
Abhii charaagh-e-sar-e-rah ko kuchh khabar hii nahiiN;
Abhii giraanii-e-shab meN kamii nahiiN aa'ii,
Najaat-e-diidaa-o-dil ki ghaRii nahiiN aa'ii;
Chale-chalo ke vo manjil abhii nahiiN aa'ii
The Dawn of Freedom (August 1947)
This leprous daybreak, this night-bitten dawn,
this is not the dawn we awaited with longing sighs;
this is not the dawn that drew our friends on
believing that, somewhere in the desert of these skies,
they would find the resting-place of the stars,
somewhere find where night’s sluggish tides reach shore,
somewhere find the boat of heartache and drop anchor.
When we friends set out by the secret byways of youth
how many hands bid us stay, pulling at our hems!
From eager bedchambers in the palace of truth,
sweet arms kept crying out, flesh calling us to come;
but dearer was the seductive face of daylight,
dearer still her robe aglow with sprites:
my longing seemed to buoy me, my weariness grew light.
It is said that the division of day from night is done,
it is said our goals are realized and unflawed;
but only the ways of our hurtful leaders are new-sprung,
collective joy decreed, the anguish of separation outlawed.
The fire in our livers, the burning in our hearts, the riots in our
eyes—
this severing cannot cure any of these.
When did that dear morning wind arrive—and must it go yet?
The lamps on these byroads have not felt its breeze;
no one has come to lighten this night’s heavy load yet,
our heart’s inheritance has not been bestowed yet.
Come with me, come, our goal lies down the road yet.
