Jis Sar Ko Guroor - Mir Taqi Mir Translation

Ghazal by Mir Taqi Mir

जिस सर को ग़ुरूर आज है याँ ताज-वरी का
कल उस पे यहीं शोर है फिर नौहागरी का

That head which today is proud of its crown—
tomorrow, here itself, will echo with mourning.

शर्मिंदा तिरे रुख़ से है रुख़्सार परी का
चलता नहीं कुछ आगे तिरे कब्क-ए-दरी का

The fairy’s cheek stands ashamed before your face—
even the partridge’s proud gait falters in your presence.

आफ़ाक़ की मंज़िल से गया कौन सलामत
अस्बाब लुटा राह में याँ हर सफ़री का

Who has ever crossed the horizons and remained unharmed?
On this road, every traveler is stripped of what they carry.

ज़िंदाँ में भी शोरिश न गई अपने जुनूँ की
अब संग मदावा है इस आशुफ़्ता-सरी का

Even in prison, the tumult of my madness did not subside—
now, perhaps, only stones can remedy this restless head.

हर ज़ख़्म-ए-जिगर दावर-ए-महशर से हमारा
इंसाफ़-तलब है तिरी बेदाद-गरी का

Every wound in my heart will stand on Judgment Day,
seeking justice for your unkindness.

अपनी तो जहाँ आँख लड़ी फिर वहीं देखो
आईने को लपका है परेशाँ-नज़री का

Wherever my gaze collides, there it remains—
this restless seeing lunges even toward the mirror.

सद मौसम-ए-गुल हम को तह-ए-बाल ही गुज़रे
मक़्दूर न देखा कभू बे-बाल-ओ-परी का

A hundred springs I passed beneath the shelter of tresses—
never did I witness the strength of the wingless, the bare.

इस रंग से झमके है पलक पर कि कहे तू
टुकड़ा है मिरा अश्क अक़ीक़-ए-जिगरी का

Such a glow trembles upon my eyelash, you might say—
this tear is a shard of my heart’s ruby.

कल सैर किया हम ने समुंदर को भी जा कर
था दस्त-ए-निगर पंजा-ए-मिज़्गाँ की तरी का

Yesterday I went to behold the sea—
yet it seemed intent on tracing the wetness of my lashes.

ले साँस भी आहिस्ता कि नाज़ुक है बहुत काम
आफ़ाक़ की इस कारगह-ए-शीशागरी का

Breathe gently—this work is exceedingly delicate:
the whole horizon is a workshop of glass.

टुक 'मीर' जिगर-ए-सोख़्ता की जल्द ख़बर ले
क्या यार भरोसा है चराग़-ए-सहरी का

Go, Mir, inquire soon after this burned heart—
what faith can one place in a lamp at dawn?

A note on the ghazal

What Mir does here is deceptively simple: he keeps placing two things beside each other—grandeur and ruin, beauty and shame, madness and helplessness—and never resolves them. The crown becomes mourning. The journey becomes loss. The beloved’s beauty does not elevate; it diminishes everything around it.

There is also a quiet, recurring idea of stripping. Travelers are robbed. The self is reduced to wounds. Even perception itself becomes unstable—the eye “collides” and cannot move on. By the time we reach the later couplets, the scale has shifted: the ocean looks at the tear, not the other way around. The vast is humbled before the intimate.

Two images hold the ghazal together:

• Fragility — the “glass workshop of the horizons,” the “lamp at dawn.” Everything luminous is on the verge of breaking or going out.

• Madness / ishq — not romantic excess, but a condition that cannot be cured, only endured or stoned into silence.

And beneath all this runs Mir’s most characteristic movement: a refusal to dramatize. Even suffering is stated plainly, almost conversationally. That is why the last couplet lands so softly—it does not declare despair; it simply questions how long the light will last.

If one were to gather the ghazal into a single thought, it might be this: everything that shines is already leaning toward disappearance, and love is the awareness of that fact, lived without defense.