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.
* Bedil (1644-1721)— poet and thinker.
** Komde and Modan—heroes of a Bedil poem.
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