1. My every hair’s a tongue standing to order.
In verse I now describe a certain barber.
2. Off royal pomp he knocked the crown, and booed.
Beneath his hand lay every head subdued.
3. Because the mirror looked to him with hope
By it he was the sun’s equal in scope.
4. An instance of the sun, that radiant man
Took for his blade a lancing ray to hand.
5. When far away his blade reveals its trace
In honor does the vein give up its place.
6. A hair’s worth won’t he yield to sorrow’s vein.
His blade is lighter than a hair–it’s plain.
7. By shearing heads now he’s the head honcho.
His laws like water over people’s heads do flow.
8. He never moistens heads. It’s all the same.
Seeing his waist, do hairs all melt in shame.
9. So ravishingly are his scissors molded
Of idols’ eyes and brows are you reminded.
10. So hair-besotted are his scissors now
They’re competition for the eyebrow.
11. When from his hand the blade’s thorn flails
It cups the rose to bleed the nightingale.
12. Excelling at phlebotomy, he struck
A figure incomparable at work.
13. When with my blood he decked my forehead
From envy did the flowering branch turn red.
14. What spells does he breathe, what powers,
That flowering branches readily shed their flowers?
15. Is he drunk on the wine of its fervor
That he knocks back goblets to the mirror?
16. So crazed is he with fire of its ardor
Each night he drinks umpteen cups of water.
17. Collecting ash in furnaces, that moon
Contrives to burnish mirrors bright as noon.
18. My murder’s all he wants, his only care
And yet he tests his scalpel on my hair.
19. To draw my blood like wine, that crazy man,
Stands always, I see, with gourd in hand.
20. By him was I immersed in seas of blood.
How strange! Look–I drown by a buoying gourd.
21. Awaiting that rose-bodied one’s coming
The pauper from the steam-bath comes, hoping.
22. In madness, that moon-like man tips over
On heads, like wine, tubfuls of water.
23. This desire’s deprived my eyes of sleep;
They stand before him like cups of water and weep.
24. O come, world-warming sun, come here, I say!
Our night without you turns to blackest day.
25. Before me then he placed a mirror, that moon,
But only when I fell into a swoon.
26. And then from each finger my nails he wrenched
So that on nothing could my hands stay clenched.
27. That radiant sun then raised me from below.
You might say he’d shorn me of all shadow.
28. For as long as the moon’s a lamp unto the world
May I walk safeguarded under his shade unfurled.
[Mullā Tāhir] Ghanī Kashmīrī (died 1668-69) Kashmir (modern day Pakistan)
Translated by Prashant Keshavmurthy
Source: inTranslation
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