Bedil brought beauty to our world
bewitching hues of burgeoning life –
To poems' springtime garden came
new glory growing rich and rife.
He wove his words so deepest thoughts
were clear unto the worthy few,
Like priceless pearls on ocean beds
long hidden in the depths of blue.
No Sufi was Bedil, nor yet
a mullah or a mufti grand.
He simply saw the world as one
whose soul all things could understand.
Along the road of life he met
Komde and then Modan as well.
For ages yet to come he wrote
a tale that their true love would tell.
Komde bemused Bedil with dance.
Modan had seared him with his fire.
He sang to them and in his heart
their sufferings soared up ever higher.
That poet's heart Komde entranced.
Today your art has captured mine,
Tara-Chandri, Tara-Chandri,
the greatest dancer of all time!
O you, Hindu, and you, Tajik –
two hearts like candles shedding light!
Bedil by fire was seared, consumed –
like two great suns its flames flared bright.
I saw when I was in your land
the traces left by Autumn's day.
Amid the fading groves and blooms
I sought for signs left by Komde.
While dust was settling on your street,
I thought some sign there might be found.
I sought Komde, her gate, the yard,
at least a footprint on the ground.
When you dance you're life itself,
while all the rest seems dull and dead.
Held by your charm gazelles on plains
and mountain eagles lose their head.
I sensed within your whirlwind dance
the throne of art and there Komde.
The skirt swirled round your flashing feet,
a peacock's tail in full display.
I glimpsed within your surging dance
a falling star's intensive light,
The gleam Modan and his Komde
had left to trace their star in flight.
You are bewitching as Komde,
with youth's full glory in your eyes.
O Tara-Chandri, Tara-Chandri,
the Moon of India's skiesl
Did not Hafiz for you write verse,
such magic words and lines compose
It seemed he threaded splendid pearls
to render praise in matchless rows?
In countless hearts of youth Hafiz
wove nests of love-songs without end.
All lovers by Hafiz were loved
as if each were his dearest friend.
O beauty-spot upon your brow,
O just one lock of fragrant hair.
O promise of your eyes divine –
for you his soul he would not spare!
«Come,» he sang, «and take my life!
Royal my conditions are –
For beauty's mark I'll give as thanks
Samarkand and Bokhara!»
O, poor Moon of India's skies,
whence flows your power, tell me now.
And that mark, I long to know,
whence it came to bless your brow.
Enchantress, I was never caught
in your silken tresses' share,
Nor bound by spells cast by your glance,
nor by that symbol of the fair.
Although your beauty wounds men's hearts –
a fiery bolt to pierce them through –
My love for people brought me here,
to your country and to you.
Equality in my land reigns.
That mighty country to the north
Sent me, her son, to you, our friend,
with all the warmth that spring brings forth.
Entrancing art is your great gift,
but bitterness fate also gave.
O Tara-Chandri, Tara-Chandri,
a Queen and yet – a Slave!
Òî÷ 
Ðóñ 
Àíã