This Was Once A Love Poem - Poem By Jane Hirshfield In Hindi/Urdu Translation Poem by Ravi Kopra

Kabhi ye ek mohabbat ki nazm thee
jab uska patha mota na hua tha
jab us ka sans kam na hua tha
jab us ne apne aap ko na dhekha tha
ek khaDi car k fender pe baitahy hue
uljhay hue preshaan hue
jab car k paas se baDay log guzar rahay thay
baghair us ko dekhtay hue.

Us ko khoob yaad hai
kitni gazab ki lubas us ne pehni thee
kisi baDi mulakat k waqt
us ko khoob yaad hai us n kya jootay pehenay thay
koun sa gallay main scarf lagaya tha
koun si tie pehni thee.

Kabhi vo naashtay k liyay beer peeta tha
aur kisi k saath baith kar
dariya main apnay pair hilata bheegta tha.

Apni sharmeeli kabhi vo jHooth se dekhata tha
kabhi vo such-much sharmila ho jata tha
apna sar jhuka leta tha ta k us k baalon se
uska chera CHup jaey aur log us k dekh na paaiN.

Vo josh main aa kar ithaas aur art k bhashan deta tha
ye nazm tab badi sub pyaari the
uski thoDi k neechay mulayam twatcha dhali na the
ghutnoN k peecHay peeli charbi k pad na thay
subah jis baat main uska vihwaas thaa, vohi raat main bhi tha
apne khalis sahas main apna chera aur bohraiN uthaey rakhta dekhta tha.

Khawshain ab bhi kam nahin hui hain
abhi bhi us ko samaj hai
ab kisi billi ko paalnay ka
ya afreeka k baun-fashi phool ya naag kaani phooloN ko uganay ka waqat hai.

Lakin vo neelay aur laal rung k mitti k pyaaloN main
cHoti si ugti cactus ko chunta hai
aur jab shudh aur shaant apni neyi ajeeb zindgi main
kucH baichain sa ho jata hai, to vo ya is ya us cactus ko
ek ujalti shamah ki tarah apni ungli baDayey cHoota hai.

***

This Was Once a Love Poem - Poem by Jane Hirshfield

This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes,
this scarf or tie.

Once, it drank beer for breakfast,
drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,
dropping its head so the hair would fall forward,
so the eyes would not be seen.

IT spoke with passion of history, of art.
It was lovely then, this poem.
Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.

Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,
it will touch them—one, then another—
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.
Jane Hirshfield