Crystal Pearls

To engrave poetic verses is not as easy as that of being wanton like kids scamper with excitement in a garth yet is astoundingly dauntless. One needs to ruminate a good deal so as to instigate an aristocratic piece of work. A foray is made by a lot many partakers in smiting the colossal gate of the fort of poetry nonetheless scarcely a handful integers ever secure conquest. In early span of the endeavour, not only their tops slate them but also pursuers. This field looking as chic as a moor, more than often, turns out to be rock-strewn land to walk on. Faiz Ahmed Faiz seems to be one of those who once began to flow the velocity then did nothing but kept on marching robustly and vigorously. On this ragged path, taunting-arrows and slamming-shell would unquestionably have halted him from netting an unswerving grasp in the poetry enclosure, nevertheless, in vain. By right of being no slouch on poetry, he was roofed over by some superior well-versed Urdu poets: I am convinced that they would never have rued their being a prop to him, in that he not only fitted the bill later on but also among the analogous path-runners he headed exultantly. Even if, in his salad days, his work had not been retained, he’d beyond doubt have carried on scudding at a velvety impetus and would neither have scurried away off the ring nor would his sturdy willing have plummeted on the grounds that his melody seems to have taken birth in order to rid himself of an elegiac lava boiling in his inner having faced a heck of anguishes. As is said by this poetic gem:

تھے بہت بے درد لمحے ختم درد عشق کے
تھیں بہت بے مہر صبحیں مہرباں راتوں کے بعد

دل تو چاہا پر شکست دل نے مہلت ہی نہ دی
کچھ گلے شکوے بھی کر لیتے مناجاتوں کے بعد

The moments the ache of love ended were painful
The mornings were so sore after nights merciful

The heart wanted to but down-run state didn’t allow me
To release grievance after the greetings fromalityful

His toil stands empty of sappiness as well as sleaziness. One sometimes might find themself plumbing while studying his sterling vocalizations though; however, his composition proved to reflect reality:

قرب کے نہ وفا کے ہوتے ہیں
سارے جھگڑے انا کے ہوتے ہیں

It’s neither proximity nor loyalty
Yet ego breaks relation’s individuality

Some pieces of his works which he incised conamore on the manuscript putting it in a nut shell are indubitably crammed with melancholy strains and hence are to a great extent profounder than the many other pukka epics:

“To beseech, no courage is left
To bear, no courage is left

Only your view I have lost
Or else the world, nothing left.”

Before laying a hand on the atoll of conclusion I can’t help but pen concerning one of his opulent written sonatas:

دشت تنہا ئ میں اے جان جہاں لرزاں ہیں
تیری آواز کے ساے، تیرے ہونٹوں کے سراب

دشت تنہا ئ میں دوری کے خس و خاک تلے
کھل رہے ہیں، ترے پہلو کے سمن اور گلاب

In desert of lonesomeness
o my love, tremble
the glimpse of your voice
the mirage of your lips

In desert of lonesomeness
in ashes of the distance between us
bloom jasmines and roses of your tips

To sum up, having found myself exceptionally inept to render the showcase of that classical work wholly I would cease penning with saying that the plaintive numbers amassed by this man let his voice chaunt out in the air like echoing theme that stays stationary in the profundity of the readers’ heart for a drawn out extent of time.