Ghazal Quotes

एक जंगल है तेरी आँखों में मैं जहाँ राह भूल जाता हूँ तू किसी रेल-सी गुज़रती है मैं किसी पुल-सा थरथराता हूँ

Every child has known God, Not the God of names, Not the God of don'ts, Not the God who ever does Anything weird, But the God who knows only 4 words And keeps repeating them, saying: "Come Dance with Me." Come Dance.

Again, my mind drifts to your street! But I remind myself that that is where my heart was lost. . What utterly abandoned land this is! The desert makes me think about my house. .

Whatever happens, happens for the best.' That's how any domestic counselling starts in a Marathi family. Everyone in every family has an inner psychiatrist who rises to the occasion with some home-made mottos, a few lines from Jagjit Singh ghazal. An older generation may quote Tukaram but underlying all this is the bedrock phase: Whatever happens, happens for the best.

In the heart's wild space lies the space of wilderness. What won't one lose, what home one won't give forever!

There is a part of this story that will always be, mostly, a love poem. But it's the kind sung in a key you and I know so well: adoration galvanized by futility. The sweet apricot that is impossible to catch, the beloved with a one-way flight offshore-each could be a stanza in our own personal ghazal.

He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven. He’s left open—for God—the doors of Hell tonight.

And by then I had understood that any ghazal that could not pierce your heart completely and instantly, like an arrow, had no value as a work of art.

There are millions of shayaris and ghazals and songs that spin beautiful words about what love is: fire, wine, pain," he goes on. "But that is all passion. Feeling. Love, on the other hand, is an act. A practice. A descision." "Are you saying who you love is a choice?" "No, no. Who you have feelings for-that is not a choice. Feelings happen whether you want them to or not. But love isn't a feeling; it's the act of planting a seed and putting in the time and care it needs to grow. It demands hard work and renewal to survive. It demands commitment. By necessity, it cannot be take lightly.

I was dead I came alive I was tears I became laughter All because of love when it arrived my temporal life from then on changed to eternal Love said to me you are not crazy enough you don’t fit this house I went and became crazy crazy enough to be in chains Love said you are not intoxicated enough you don’t fit the group I went and got drunk drunk enough to overflow with light-headedness Love said you are still too clever filled with imagination and skepticism I went and became gullible and in fright pulled away from it all Love said you are a candle attracting everyone gathering every one around you I am no more a candle spreading light I gather no more crowds and like smoke I am all scattered now Love said you are a teacher you are a head and for everyone you are a leader I am no more not a teacher not a leader just a servant to your wishes Love said you already have your own wings I will not give you more feathers And then my heart pulled itself apart and filled to the brim with a new light overflowed with fresh life Now even the heavens are thankful that because of love I have become the giver of light

Samir Singh frequented the pleasure houses of Hazi and Nasreen whenever he had business in Agra. There, Muslim noblemen, Bengali businessmen and Hindu doctors and lawyers smoked hookahs, and ate and drank as the courtesans recited ancient poetry, sang sweet, nostalgic ghazals and performed

YOU MUSTN'T BE AFRAID OF DEATH you're a deathless soul you can't be kept in a dark grave you're filled with God's glow be happy with your beloved you can't find any better the world will shimmer because of the diamond you hold when your heart is immersed in this blissful love you can easily endure any bitter face around in the absence of malice there is nothing but happiness and good times don't dwell in sorrow my friend ghazal number 2594

The world's longest, as far as I know, ghazal ("Bowls of Food") in its wandering wonders what's hidden in language, in the talk of plants, and in the moment, which, it says, is an embryo inside an eggshell that shatters into birth to become birdsong, and God! Such an astonishing image for the transformative edge of the present.

They are yours, but you don’t understand them,” snapped Reza. “Only Adam was given true intellect, and only the banu adam have the power to call things by their right names. What you call the bird king and the hind and the stag—these are only symbols to disguise a hidden message, just as a poet may write a ghazal about a toothless lion to criticize a weak king. Hidden in your stories is the secret power of the unseen.” The stories are their own message, said the thing, with something like a sigh. That’s the secret.

The ghazals are convincing, and patience is a powerful weapon…but the heart of a timid man will never win his lady.

he came to understand that there was a hidden writer of ghazals – a ghazalnus – in every person.

What will I die with in my hand? A paintbrush (for houses), an M15 a hammer or ax, a book a gavel, a candlestick tiptoeing upstairs. What will I hold or will I be caught with this usual thing that I want to be my heart but it is my brain and I turn it over and over and over.

No one can own poetry. No one can register ghazals to his name, like real estate. All one can do is to use poetry, ghazals and the imagination to avoid losing the world and losing oneself.

Sadness has always been a part of me. That’s why my eyes look sad. Sadness hovers over my life and never leaves me. It knows all the places where I go to. And it finds me. Sometimes I do feel happy. And life looks beautiful. But these moments don’t stay as long as I want them to. And sadness visits me all over again. Sometimes I feel sad when there may not be any reason to be sad. Sadness has stayed with me throughout my school and college days. While my friends in those days preferred listening to rock and roll, I preferred listening to ghazals or sad or deeply meaningful songs. I was never the most popular boy at school. I had a few friends but I would be brooding alone most often. I wanted to know the meaning of life. I would most often stare at the sky and try look for answers. I somehow felt someone will speak to me from the sky. I have always felt a voice talking to me from the sky. But I feel lonely most often. I feel as if no one really loves anyone. There is no real love. The majority of people in this world believe in give and take. No person loves anyone unconditionally. When I realise this, I feel utterly sad. Because life is not about projecting an image. It is much more than that. It is about being authentic with ourselves and with others we meet in life.

PARTITION' are your drains clean of blood now? do you recall the names, and faces of your own people? did your countrymen get to die right like human beings? butchered sisters and mothers still wait by the windows, with no lantern. that was no proper farewell past midnight. minarets whisper your ghazals to an empty sky, Koklass’ know the borders too. what have you done, sir?

کہانیاں اور افسانے زندگی سے ہی عبارت ہوتے ہیں اور یہ انسان کو نہ تو ہوشیار بناتے ہیں نہ معصومیت سے عاری کرتے ہیں بلکہ جینے کا شعور اور زندگی کاسلیقہ دیتے ہیں رویوں کو پرکھنا انسانوں کو جاننا سکھاتے ہیں بشرطیکہ انہیں سمجھ کر کچھ حاصل کرنے کی غرض سے پڑھا جاۓ.

Sitaaron se aage jahaan aur bhee hain Abhi ishq ke imtihaan aur bhee hain Tahi zindagi se naheen ye fizaaein Yahaan saikadon karwaan aur bhee hain Qanaa’at na kar aalam-e rang-o boo per Chaman aur bhi aashiyaan aur bhee hain Agar kho gaya ik nasheman to gham kyaa Maqaamaat-e aah-o fughaan aur bhee hain Tu shaheen hai parwaaz hai kaam tera Tere saamne aasmaan aur bhee hain Isee roz-o shab mein ulajh kar na rah jaa Ke tere zamaan-o makaan aur bhee hain Gaye din ke tanhaa tha mein anjuman mein Yahaan ab mere raazdaan aur bhee hain

She had been hesitant the first night, right before she had launched into him like a wild animal. The imprint of her violence had lasted on him well until the morning and while he had been hurt, he had loved the fact that she was into him, that she lusted after him fanatically, that she scratched him, wept on him, bit him and he was grateful that she let him see her like that: unhinged, throbbing and warm-skinned. She was powerful and thus ironically all the more defenceless in surrender. At times he felt as though she truly hated him, hated him for making her feel like this, for having to condescend herself just by wanting him. He felt as though she was warning him constantly through her seething, hurtling silence; to not let her down after she had disclosed so much of her soul to him. Her insecurities, her memories, her fetishes, her scent, her limbs; they had all been laid-bare in front of him and as he lay there next to the girl whose chest heaved and fell like the meter of a ghazal, he fell in love with that girl and her bundle of contradictions.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Disheveled hair, sweaty, smiling, drunken, and With a torn shirt, singing, the jug in hand Narcissus loudly laments, on his lips, alas, alas! Last night at midnight, came and sat right by my bed-stand Brought his head next to my ears, with a sad song Said, O my old lover, you are still in dreamland The lover who drinks this nocturnal brew Infidel, if not worships the wine's command Go away O hermit, fault not the drunk Our Divine gift from the day that God made sea and land Whatever He poured for us in our cup, we just drank If it was a cheap wine or heavenly brand The smile on the cup's face and Beloved's hair strand Break many who may repent, just as Hafiz falsely planned

When You Reveal Those Rose-Colored Cheeks Ghazal 1711 1941 When you reveal those rose-colored cheeks (of yours),you make the stones whirl2 from joy. Put (your) head out from the veil once again, for the sake of amazed lovers-- So that knowledge may lose the way, (and) the intellectual may shatter (his) learning; So that water may become a pearl3 from your reflection, (and) fire may quit war. 1945 With (the presence of) your beauty, I don't desire the (lovely full) moon or those few little hanging lanterns (in the heavens). (And) with (the presence of) your face, I don't call the ancient rusty sky a "mirror." You breathed into and created this narrow world4 in another form once again. O Venus,5 make that harp melodious again, in desire for his Mars-like eyes!

I long to open up my heart For my heart do my part. My story was yesterday’s news From rivals cannot keep apart. On this holy night stay with me Till the morning, do not depart. On a night so dark as this, My course, how can I chart? O breath of life, help me tonight That in the morn I make a start. In my love for you, I will My self and ego thwart. Like Hafiz, being love smart; I long to master that art

Two things that weren’t even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from telephone operators’ greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas.

Ia adalah shisha yang dihisap semua orang. Luka yang memberi kenikmatan di mata para pencari dusta. Tidak ada penafsiran apapun untuk sebuah puisi gelap yang terang terangan membutakan dirinya sendiri. Ia bukanlah ghazal atau puisi semacam itu. Ia adalah pisau yang naif dan terang benderang. Pisau majal yang pelan pelan mengiris kesadaran orang orang bebal. Ia tidak terlahir untuk menciptakan kebahagiaan bagi orang orang yang kesepian. Ia adalah metafora dari kehidupan yang kotor, keji dan bahkan cabul. Ia adalah anjing yang mengeram dalam diri semua orang. Anjing anjing yang tak henti menyalak. Binatang buas yang tak mengenal kata lain selain rasa laparnya sendiri. Ia telah melubangi pikiran kita dengan kata makian dan ucapan sumpah serapah. Ia terbiasa menipu kita dengan erangan erangan palsu bahwa ia telah mencapai katarsis. Ia telah menodai simbol kesucian yang selama ini kita kenal. Ia tak memberi kita kelegaan jiwa, ia tak membuat halaman rumah kita menjadi bersih. Walau ia telah berhasil memaksa kita menanggalkan topeng kemunafikan, tetapi ia juga menjejali kita dengan sebotol khamr memabukkan yang tak sanggup kita tolak.

Know about ' Main Shabana' Mein Shabana by Yusuf Rais Book Description The novel Mein Shabana will touch the hearts of many people because even though being a novel, this is a story of you, every woman. Despite being an episode of a particular environment and family, it seems very up close and personal to you. Many of the characters in this novel are familiar to even though they seem fictional to you; the actions of these characters and its repercussions are universal in nature and not restricted to just Shabana, the protagonist of this novel. ABOUT THE AUTHOR- Yusuf Rais The author was born in 1975 in a little town of Rajasthan. He pursued his education in Arts, and completed MA from Rajasthan University, Jaipur. He is currently put up at Pirawa, a town situated in the district of Jhalawar, Rajasthan. He has been an avid lover of language since the age of six and has continued his oration and writing since then. He is currently working as a reporter and has published articles in Dainik Bhaskar and Navjyoti. He has previously published two ghazal books — Ek Tanha Safar and Chehara Rishton Ka — which have been critically acclaimed by his circle of book lovers. Copied

Two things that weren’t even on the agenda survived every upheaval that followed. General Akhtar remained a general until the time he died, and all God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationery, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz-show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from telephone operators’ greetings, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas. In the name of God, God was exiled from the land and replaced by the one and only Allah who, General Zia convinced himself, spoke only through him. But today, eleven years later, Allah was sending him signs that all pointed to a place so dark, so final, that General Zia wished he could muster up some doubts about the Book. He knew if you didn’t have Jonah’s optimism, the belly of the whale was your final resting place.

O wine-bearer brighten my cup with the wine O minstrel say good fortune is now mine. The face of my Beloved is reflected in my cup Little you know why with wine, I always myself align. Eternal is the one whose heart has awakened to Love This is how Eternal Records my life define. So proud are the tall beauties of the world Outshines all the others this handsome spruce of mine. O breeze if by chance you pass through friendly gardens From me to my Beloved, please give a sign; Ask why you choose to forget my name? Will come the one to whom an audience you decline. Intoxication pleases my Beloved and my Lord To the wine, they would assign, my life's design. What if on Judgement Day, no favor would be gained From eating bread and leaving a forbidden water so fine? Hafiz, let a tear drop or two leave your eyes, May we ensnare the Bird of Union, divine. The sea of the skies and the gondola of the moon With the grace of the Master, radiantly shine.

Habits do not die, I have heard, so In a habit, I am transforming myself.

Who knows when the day of judgement arrives So I am treating every day as the same.

I wrote about my love, my ishq, on bloodstained paper day after day, Manto bhai, my hand became numb, but still I wrote. I knew my ghazals would provide comfort to many people one day.

De vez en cuando asistían a conciertos de música clásica india, donde Sonia aprendió sobre ragas (melodía clásica) y ghazals (poemas cantados en urdu)

I pass away with every passing breath I reach you with every passing breath Who moans within my heart, who With my cries, I make the other cry too Unveiling the love at last I test my own love at last The secrets of beauty unravel Through the routes of being I travel I fear the lonesomeness of painful nights I get her answers for those baleful nights Fani, I enjoy when I crave What deceptions I do brave!

The radif is a rhyming alphabet, word or a phrase appears at the end of the first line of a ghazal and at the end of the every second line of each sher in the same ghazal. In other words, the radif demands a portion of the first line comprising not more than 2 to 3 words. For example, Yad hai is a radif in the following sher Chupke chupke rat din ansu bahana YAD HAI     Hamko apni ashiqi ka wo zamana YAD HAI   Hai is a radif in the following sher Hangama hai kyun barpa thodi si jo pi li HAI Daka to nahin dala chori to nahin ki HAI

Meaningful words are called kalma. A group of meaningful words that makes a complete sense is called kalam. A collection (majmua) of ghazals by a particular poet is called a diwan.

That beautiful Shirazi Turk, took control and my heart stole, I'll give Samarkand & Bukhara, for her Hindu beauty mole. O wine-bearer bring me wine, such wine not found in Heavens By running brooks, in flowery fields, spend your days and stroll. Alas, these sweet gypsy clowns, these agitators of our town Took the patience of my heart, like looting Turks take their toll. Such unfinished love as ours, the Beloved has no need, For the Perfect Beauty, frills and adornments play no role. I came to know Joseph's goodness, that daily would increase Even the chaste Mistress succumbed to the love she would extol. Whether profane or even cursed, I'll reply only in praise Sweetness of tongue and the lips, even bitterness would enthrall. Heed the advice of the wise, make your most endeared goal, The fortunate blessed youth, listen to the old wise soul. Tell tales of song and wine, seek not secrets of the world, None has found and no-one will, knowledge leaves this riddle whole. You composed poems and sang, Hafiz, you spent your days well Venus wedded to your songs, in the firmaments' inverted bowl.

The bright moon reflects your radiant face Your snowcapped cheekbones supply water of grace My heavy heart desires an audience with your face Come forward or must return, your command I will embrace. Nobody for good measures girded your fields Such trades no one in their right mind would chase. Our dormant fate will never awake, unless You wash its face and shout brace, brace! Send a bouquet of your face with morning breeze Perhaps inhaling your scent, your fields we envision & trace. May you live fulfilled and long, O wine-bearer of this feast Though our cup was never filled from your jug or your vase. My heart is reckless, please, let Beloved know Beware my friend, my soul your soul replace. O God, when will my fate and desires hand in hand Bring me to my Beloved hair, in one place? Step above the ground, when you decide to pass us by On this path lie bloody, the martyrs of human race. Hafiz says a prayer, listen, and say amen May your sweet wine daily pour upon my lips and my face. O breeze tell us about the inhabitants of city of Yazd May the heads of unworthy roll as a ball in your polo race. Though we are far from friends, kinship is near We praise your goodness and majestic mace. O Majesty, may we be touched by your grace I kiss and touch the ground that is your base

Though the wine is joyous, and the wind, flowers sorts Harp music and scent of wine, the officer reports. If you face an adversary and a jug of wine Choose the wine because, fate cheats and extorts. Up your ragged, patched sleeves, hide & keep your cup Like this flask of wine, fate too bleeds and distorts. With my teary eyes, I cleanse my robe with wine Self-restraint and piety is what everyone exhorts. Seek not your joy in the turn of the firmaments Even my filtered clear red fluid, dregs sports. This earth and sky is no more than a bleeding sieve That sifts and sorts kingly crowns and courts. Hafiz, your poems invaded Fars and Iraqi ports It is now the turn of Baghdad and Tabrizi forts

O beautiful wine-bearer, bring forth the cup and put it to my lips Path of love seemed easy at first, what came was many hardships. With its perfume, the morning breeze unlocks those beautiful locks The curl of those dark ringlets, many hearts to shreds strips. In the house of my Beloved, how can I enjoy the feast Since the church bells call the call that for pilgrimage equips. With wine color your robe, one of the old Magi’s best tips Trust in this traveler’s tips, who knows of many paths and trips. The dark midnight, fearful waves, and the tempestuous whirlpool How can he know of our state, while ports house his unladen ships. I followed my own path of love, and now I am in bad repute How can a secret remain veiled, if from every tongue it drips? If His presence you seek, Hafiz, then why yourself eclipse? Stick to the One you know, let go of imaginary trips.

When you hear the lovers’ words, think them not a mistake You don’t recognize these words, the error must be your take. The here and hereafter cannot tame my spirit and soul Praise God for all the intrigue in my mind that is at stake. I know not who resides within my heart Though I am silent, he must shake and quake. My heart went through the veil, play a song Hark, my fate, this music I must make. I paid no heed, worldly affairs I forsake It is for your beauty, beauty of the world I partake. My heart is on fire, I am restless and awake To the tavern to cure my hundred day headache. My bleeding heart has left its mark in the temple You have every right to wash my body in a wine lake. In the abode of the Magi, I am welcome because The fire that never dies, in my heart is awake. What was the song the minstrel played? My life is gone, but breathing, I still fake! Within me last night, the voice of your love did break

On dividing a sher into six parts starting from the beginning to end, all the parts are known as ---sadar, hashu, urooz, ibtada, hashu and zarab.

A verse is considered a ghazal when it is written recollecting someone whose mere sight not only induces but also charges the mind and heart with an extraordinary feeling of cupidity, passion and lust.

A sher is made of two poetical lines bearing a complete meaning.

When God designed your features and joined your brows Paved my way, then trapped me with your gestures & bows The spruce and I, both rooted to the ground Fate, like a fine cloth belt, its bind endows. United the knots of my doing and of the budding heart The fragrant breeze, when to you it made its vows. Fate convinced me to be enslaved to thee Yet nothing moves unless your will allows. Like an umbilical cord, don't wrap around my heart It is your flowing lock of hair that I espouse. You were the desire of another, O breeze of union, Alas, my heart's hope and fire you douse. I said because of your infliction I shall leave my house Smilingly said go ahead Hafiz, with chained hooves and paws. Ghazaliyat Of Hafiz Shirazi Khajeh Shamseddin Mohammad Hafiz Shirazi

Keep to your own affairs, why do you fault me? My heart has fallen in love, what has befallen thee? In the center of he, whom God made from nothing There is a subtle point that no creature can see. Until His lips fulfill my lips like a reed From all the worldly advice I must flee. The beggar of your home, of the eight heavens has no need The prisoner of your love, from both worlds is thus free. Though my drunkenness has brought forth my ruin My essence is flourished by paying that ruinous fee. O heart for the pain and injustice of love do not plead For this is your lot from the justice of eternity. Hafiz don’t help magic and fantasy further breed The world is filled with such, from sea to sea

Dil ko kya ho gaya khuda jane Kyoon hai aisa udas kya jane

Rahiye ab aisi jagah chalkar jahan koi na ho Ham sukhan koi na ho aur ham juban koi na ho

Ab ke ham bichhde to kabhi khabon me mile Jis tarah sukhe hue phool kitabon me mile

Das ghar to chhut chuke hain kahan tak karoon khasam Kis ja bithaye dekhiye ab asman mujhe.

Na puchh ai hamnashin hamse shabe furqat ki betabi Alam hai darde hasrat hai fana hai ahozzari hai

Jo usne kaha go wahi karte gaye ham to Is par bhi nigahon se utarte gaye ham to

Bah qadr-e shauq nahin zarf-e tangna-e ghazal Kuch aur chahiye vusat mire bayan ke liye

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To be a philosopher is not of course necessarily to be in agreement with Aristotle. But it was increasingly an Aristotelian point of view that prevailed among Islamic philosophers and, when the greatest of the Islamic critics of philosophy, al-Ghazal!, attacks philosophers he identifies philosophy with Aristotelian philosophy.

SUDDEN RESURRECTION! Endless mercy! Blazing fire in the thickets of thought! Today you came laughing Unlocking dungeons Came to the meek Like god’s grace and bounty You are the antechamber to the sun You are the hope’s prerequisite You are sought Seeker Terminus Principia You pulse in every chest adorn every idea then permit their realization Spirit- spring, irreplaceable Delight of action and cognition. All the rest is pretext, fraud- the former, illness; the latter, cure We’re jaundiced by that fraud Heart-set to slay an innocent Drunk, now on angel eyes Now on plain bread and soup Taste this intoxication, drop your ratiocination Savor these delectable Drop the debatables A little bread and greens Should not entail so much trouble *Ghazal 1

The ear is superior to the eye, as it does not stop functioning with sleep. Since

bosa jo talab mai.n ne kiyaa ha.ns ke vo bole ye husn kii daulat hai luTaa.ii nahii.n jaatii This sher highlights the mischievousness of the beloved in Urdu ghazal. She knows that the lover is passionate for a kiss. But playfully she denies saying that the wealth of beauty must not be spent more than required.

However large earth's garden, mine's enough. One rose and the shade of a vine's enough. I don't want more wealth, I don't need more dross. The grape has its bloom and it shines enough. Why ask for the moon? The moon's in your cup, a beggar, a tramp, for whom wine's enough. Look at the stream as it winds out of sight. One glance, one glimpse of a chine's enough. Like the sun in bazaars, streaming in shafts, any slant on the grand design's enough. When you're here, my love, what more could I want? Just mentioning love in a line's enough. Heaven can wait. To have found, heaven knows, a bed and a roof so divine's enough. I've no grounds for complaint. As Hafez says, isn't a ghazal that he signs enough?

The Maronite Christian women in Manaus could not tolerate the notion of Zana marrying a Muslim. A mere tinker, a peddler, a roughneck, a Muslim from the mountains of Southern Lebanon, they’d say. Ah, these passions in the provinces. It’s like being onstage, listening to the audience booing two actors playing two lovers. The more they booed, the more perfume I put on the marriage sheets. It was a greedy and vengeful kiss, I silenced those rattling tongues…and all of Abbas’s ghazals were in that kiss.

He will express his suffering more clearly; he will compose two ghazals on the burning of jealousy, a sweet burning, for it fortifies love by consuming it.

Ba kuja sar niham keh chun zanjir Har dare halqa-e dare digar-ast (Hide—but where? Each door I close opens another.) —Anonymous (found in a ghazal by Mir Taqi Mir)

will forget once again about Afghanistan. The lines are from his favorite of Hafez’s ghazals: Joseph shall return to Canaan, grieve not, Hovels shall turn to rose gardens, grieve not. If a flood should arrive, to drown all that’s alive, Noah is your guide in the typhoon’s eye, grieve not.

Kis ki aawaaz kaan mein aaee Door ki baat dhyaan mein aaee Aap aate rahe bulaate rahe Aane waali ik aan mein aaee Ye kinaara chalaa ke naao chali Kahiye kya baat dhyaan mein aaee ‘Ilm kya ‘ilm ki haqeeqat kyaa Jaisi jis ke gumaan mein aaee Aankh neechi huee arey ye kyaa Yoon gharaz darmiyaan mein aaee Main payamber naheen Yagana sahi Is se kyaa kasr shaan mein aaee

Whose voice? What did I hear? A distant thought brought me cheer All entreating but only a trash One meant to come, came in a flash Is the bank moving, or is it the boat? Say, what thought is now afloat? What is knowledge, what is its worth? We had aplenty, there was no dearth Your eyes downcast, what’s the matter? A selfish motive, enough to shatter I’m only Yagana, not God’s envoy But why should that ever annoy

Jam’a mein afraad-e aalam ek hain Gul ke sab auraaq-e barham ek hain Howe kab wahdat mein kasrat se khalal Jism-o jaan go do hain per hum ek hain Nau-e insaan ki buzurgi se tuk ek Hazarat-e Jibreel mahram ek hain Daal hai us per hi Qur’an ka nuzool Baat ki fehmeed main hum ek hain Muttafiq aapas main hain ahl-e shuhood Dard aankhein dekh baaham ek hain

In all, all the beings of the world are really one Petals are so many, but the flower is really one How can this medley ever disrupt unity Body and soul are two, the two are really one Of mankind’s supremacy over all others That’s a truth Gabriel knows; the truth is really one Qur’an’s revelation is a sure proof of this: In getting the truth, we all are really one All the believers surely agree with each other Dard, the eyes are two but the two are really one

Har saans ke saath jaa rahaa hoon Main tere qareeb aa rahaa hoon Ye dil mein karaahne lagaa kaun Ro ro ke kise rulaa rahaa hoon Ab ‘ishq ko beneqaab kar ke Main husn ko aazmaa rahaa hoon Asraar-e jamaal khul rahe hain hastee ka suraagh paa rahaa hoon Tanhaa-i sham-e ghum ke dar se Kuchh un se jawaab paa rahaa hoon Lazzat kashe-e aarzoo hoon Fani Danista fareb khaa rahaa hoon

Beyond the stars, many a world Before love is proved, many a test The space, not shorn of blessings Moving about, many a caravan No end to the world of glamour Many a garden, many a nest Why worry, if an abode is lost For my laments, many a space You, a falcon, for you a flight Many a sky, many a cloud Don’t be snared by days and nights You’ve many a time, many a place No more a stranger, here and now I’ve many a keeper, many a kin

ليتني شجرةٌ، لا أغادر بيتي وراء الأحبة إذ يرحلونْ... كلما حفر الناس صدري بأسمائهم، قلت: لا بأس أن يجرٓحٓ العاشقونْ...

لا تقترب من كثيراً... ابتعدْ حتى أراك...

والآن‎ في فصل الحنينِ وحين يعرى حزن أيلول ‎ لأنسام الشتاءْ ‎ ينتابني وجعٌ وأسئلةٌ لماذا الحزن مع عين السماءْ؟ ‎ ولأيّ قلبٍ كلّما انهمرت سماءٌ ‎ فوق أرضٍ ‎أشتهي حبّاً مضى... ‎ وتفوحُ رائحةُ النساءْ…

الساكنون بهذا القلب قد عرفوا أن السعادة لا تعني سوى الأملِ… كل البلاد سجونٌ غير آمنةٍ… إلا متى وجه مَن في البال، يضحك لي!

لم يكن لنا أجنحة، فاعتمدنا الخيال وسيلة للسفر... لم يكن لنا هوية، فحفرنا ملامحنا في الحجر... لم يكن لنا وطن، فصرنا نقلّد حيث نقيم خصال الشجر…

لك الحمد يا إلهي على الابتلاء قبل العطاء… على المرض قبل الشفاء، على البيت والعراء..فلولا انكسار البيت لما دخلت علينا … السماء بنجومها

أجمل تجليات الله، قلوب العاشقين… وأجمل تجليات العشق، عيون المؤمنين… هنا حيث العشق إيمان، والحجر كالشجر، والكلام كالسلام، يجد الشعر الضوء ليخرج بانسيابية من بين أنامل الأطفال وكسور الأفئدة…

لَكِ فُسْحَةٌ كُبْرى بِذاكِرَتي ‎فَتَحَفَّظي, أَرْجوكِ سَيّدَتي ‎لا تاجَ عِنْدي...لا قصور معي... ‎حَتّى تَكوني أَنْتِ مَمْلَكَتي ‎لا تُجْهِدي عَيْنَيْكِ بي فَأَنا ‎رَجُلٌ جِراحاتُ الهَوى لُغَتي ‎أُشْفى مِنِ امْرَأَةٍ بِإِمْرَأَةٍ ‎فَأَحُلُّ مُشْكِلَتي بِمُشْكِلَةِ…

كل صباح أرفع كوب الماء، وأتركه. ‎هكذا أطمئن إلى أن العالم لم يتغير، وقوانينه ما زالت تعمل...

لأنك أمعنت شكاً وظنّا سأذكر أجمل ما كان منا وأمضي، فلا البحر ضمّ الشراع ولا الريح سارت كما نتمنى وما دمت لا تطمئن بقربي سأرحل عنك لكي تطمئنا...

بناء العقلية المتكاملة بين العلم والفن والرياضيات والهندسة والتكنولوجيا هو جل ما أسعى للوصول إليه… لا يمكن للمرء أن يستمر بالابداع اذا أطال الوقوف أمام حرم واحد للجمال…

Rheumy eyes replaced recitals of Rumi ghazals.

Beyond the shops though, Shtawrah was no different from the rest of the Biqai' The day I arrived there, I passed by the smouldering ruins of a training camp for the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine General Command on the edge of town. A squad of Israeli F16s had flattened it the day before. I was curious about the raid and asked Ghazali, whose supermarket was Shtawrah's main grocery store, if the raid worried him. He shrugged, "We're in business, what can we do?" Actually, Ghazal's answer made perfect sense. There was nothing any of the Lebanese in the Biqai' could do about a roster of neighbours that included Hezbollah, the Japanese Red Army, Baader-Meinhof, Sendero Luminosa, the PFLP, Abu Nidal, ASALA and half a dozen other suicidal and or genocidal terrorist groups. As long as the Israeli airforce continued to shoot straight, the Lebanese could get on with life and make a little money, especially if they took care of their own safety. Ghazali's clerks carried 9mm semiautomatics in shoulder holsters; and his assistant, whose office was behind a bulletproof window, kept an AK47 with a drum magazine on his desk and a clear field of fire down the aisles.

Ghazal !يا لطيف (Ya Lateef!) - 1942- A lot more malaise and a little more grief every day, aware that all seasons, the stormy, the sunlit, are brief every day. I don’t know the name of the hundredth drowned child, just the names of the oligarchs trampling the green, eating beef every day, while luminous creatures flick, stymied, above and around the plastic detritus that’s piling up over the reef every day. A tiny white cup of black coffee in afternoon shade, while an oud or a sax plays brings breath and relief every day. Another beginning, no useful conclusion in sight‚— another first draft that I tear out and add to the sheaf every day. One name, three-in-one, ninety-nine, or a matrix of tales that are one story only, well-springs of belief every day. But I wake before dawn to read news that arrived overnight on a minuscule screen , and exclaim يا لطيف every day.

Jose P. Rizal Tried writing ghazal. When his verse turned out silly He wrote Noli and Fili.

God is the only object worthy of our love, for He is the True Beloved; every other object of love veils His Face. In describing His Image which they contemplate in their hearts, the Sufis often use terminology pertaining to the primary derivative beloved of the male human being, that is, woman. All the imagery employed by the Persian poets in the ghazal or „love poem“ to praise derivative beloveds takes on a new significance at the hands of the Sufi poets. Again one must keep in mind that this is not a question of poetical convention, since according to Sufi teachings women manifest the divine Attributes of Beauty, Mercy, Gentleness, and Kindness in a relatively direct manner within their outward forms. In Rumi‘s view, their derivative beauty is the closest thing to True Beauty in the material world. For this very reason, the attraction that their beauty exerts upon a man can be one of the greatest obstacles to his spiritual development. As long as he thinks that a woman‘s beauty belongs to her, he will be led astray. But once he is able to see her beauty as the reflection of God‘s Beauty, then his derivative love can be transformed into True Love. (p. 286)

But all that is gone now. You've disappeared and left me to drown in the river that I've built of tears. Because all love has it's end. Yet I can't resist myself for wanting you to be here for a new beginning.

Vasiyat Mir ne mujh ko yehi ki Ki sab kuchh hona tu, aashiq na hona.

Si guardarono, Maan un po' sbilanciato dalla sua franchezza. Gli sembrava che lei tentasse addirittura di trattenersi dallo scoppiare a ridere. "Forse dovrei raffreddarla con un ghazal malinconico" continuò Saeeda Bai. "Sì, perché non prova?" ribatté Maan, rammentando quello che lei aveva detto una volta sui ghazal. "Vediamo che effetto avrà su di me." "Mi lasci chiamare i musicisti" disse Saeeda Bai. "No" rispose Maan, posando la mano sulla sua. "Soltanto lei e l'armonium, basterà." "Neanche il suonatore di tabla?" "Segnerò il tempo col mio cuore" rispose Maan.