clerk ka naghma-e-mohabbat

The Clerk's Love Song or the

Love Song of the Clerk

My night spent.

All night I labour at dreams and sleep

then, when morning, my mistress appears

I rise off my bed and wash.

Yesterday I bought a slice of bread

I ate half, leaving the rest for breakfast today

The world I live in is washed in the colours of strangeness

a man who lives right in front of me has a woman at home

on my right is a single storied house, now empty

the voluptuary who lives on my left, has a mistress at home

and among all this, I sit,

I sit without you

I and you: I, with every comfort, and one thing missing,

The perfume of your tangled hair.

I disentangle myself from breakfast, slip out of the house

walk the road to the office,

and on the way, pass the elegance of the town,

a horse carriage, two cars,

children passing by toward school,

what more can I say about horse carriages?

the cars, on the other hand, are sparking lightning,

how can I bear the arrows slung at me from those carriages passing by

in the time of similitude, this,

this is the wealth pouring from the houses of proper gentry, this,

this is an illusion, a mischief, a moment of innocence perhaps,

but I on the road, I walk, my fate unturned, sorrowful, sad

the sharp smile of electricity lighting up the carriages

the amiable modulation of conversation

this recognition hangs, waiting for me to come to it: does God have

any compassion?

everything lives here close by me, but for you,

and I,

I whose eyes no longer have the courage to cry.

The road cuts back and forth, the prison passes by,

perhaps I should lose my heart in work, unless someone grasps me,

I carry my heart slowly into the office,

my heart is simply innocent, foolish, a child—I give it away elsewhere,

and the river of work pulls me into its flow, my senses damping

When half the day has angled by, lost in its time,

Our chief officer saunters in from his home

summons me to his office,

I am his servant called to will

he talks forwards and then sidles sideways,

his conversation quite without worth.

I tire of his words,

Leave them for a moment, to come back to my room

to find a file,

a fire sparks my heart: were I also an officer like him

my house would distance itself from the town's dirt,

the town's dusty streets would be far away, and I

I'd have you,

but I'm merely a munshi, and you:

you’re queen of wealth, a purveyor of fame

and this,

this merely the story of my desire, more seasoned the earth.

The Clerk's Love Song or the

Love Song of the Clerk

My night spent.

All night I labour at dreams and sleep

then, when morning, my mistress appears

I rise off my bed and wash.

Yesterday I bought a slice of bread

I ate half, leaving the rest for breakfast today

The world I live in is washed in the colours of strangeness

a man who lives right in front of me has a woman at home

on my right is a single storied house, now empty

the voluptuary who lives on my left, has a mistress at home

and among all this, I sit,

I sit without you

I and you: I, with every comfort, and one thing missing,

The perfume of your tangled hair.

I disentangle myself from breakfast, slip out of the house

walk the road to the office,

and on the way, pass the elegance of the town,

a horse carriage, two cars,

children passing by toward school,

what more can I say about horse carriages?

the cars, on the other hand, are sparking lightning,

how can I bear the arrows slung at me from those carriages passing by

in the time of similitude, this,

this is the wealth pouring from the houses of proper gentry, this,

this is an illusion, a mischief, a moment of innocence perhaps,

but I on the road, I walk, my fate unturned, sorrowful, sad

the sharp smile of electricity lighting up the carriages

the amiable modulation of conversation

this recognition hangs, waiting for me to come to it: does God have

any compassion?

everything lives here close by me, but for you,

and I,

I whose eyes no longer have the courage to cry.

The road cuts back and forth, the prison passes by,

perhaps I should lose my heart in work, unless someone grasps me,

I carry my heart slowly into the office,

my heart is simply innocent, foolish, a child—I give it away elsewhere,

and the river of work pulls me into its flow, my senses damping

When half the day has angled by, lost in its time,

Our chief officer saunters in from his home

summons me to his office,

I am his servant called to will

he talks forwards and then sidles sideways,

his conversation quite without worth.

I tire of his words,

Leave them for a moment, to come back to my room

to find a file,

a fire sparks my heart: were I also an officer like him

my house would distance itself from the town's dirt,

the town's dusty streets would be far away, and I

I'd have you,

but I'm merely a munshi, and you:

you’re queen of wealth, a purveyor of fame

and this,

this merely the story of my desire, more seasoned the earth.