Classic Poem

To me the whole of Delhi's city was as a garden,
While were with me Shahbaz and Saadat Khan;
But when they departed, and left me there alone,
Hard indeed my lot, as death this separation.
Since from their sight I have been cut off completely,
Now I say indeed it is as though I were in a prison.
My household is as a garden, and I the gardener;
It is not strange that in the garden the gardener should be happy.
But when from the garden which he loves the gardener is divided,
That separation on both sides is equally hard to bear.
If but a flower of that garden should meet the sight of his eyes,
To the gardener's heart comes joy every moment that he beholds it.
See upon the paper the picture of Majnun's features,
I like him am now but skin and bone, an empty spectre.
To each one in the world one time comes the hour of dying,
I, without death, die not once, but every day.
Unjustly have I become Aurungzeeb's captive in prison;
God is alone who knows what was my charge or crime.
In myself I know no crime, it is by God I swear it;
But by others the tales that are told, many and lying are they.
The nature of my fault is by me unknown entirely,
But I see that my own excellence has been the cause of my ruin.
As I was firm and honest in deeds and in good intentions,
No other Afghan was there in the service of the Moghul.
To Sovereigns there should be compunction of heart,
Honour and self-respect, as well as justice and consideration;
For to whom can one appeal against the decrees that they give,
If upon oppression the heart of the Sovereign is bent?
Such trouble as on my tribe and family there fell,
May there never such happen to Hindoo or Mussalman.
When the discernment of their own honour is lost by them,
It is of their own power the ruin that Monarchs cause.
If Aurung Shah keeps on ever such course of action
As now he has taken in hand, God preserve us from its end!
Either it is in this year or next year that people will hear
That rivers of red blood will full and flowing be.
What indeed am I? But there are others who will act like me,
Countless are their names, the lords of the mountain lands.
He who had no compassion on his father, nor yet on his son,
How will he stay his hand on any one else in the world?
With pride is he intoxicated, and standing erect in his folly,
On high is fixed his gaze, as though the Heavens were his goal.
He that seeks of him justice, his answer by sword or by club,
What time that in his court the injured appeal for redress;
Never so much does he ask as why are your actions thus?
What though the Chiefs in his country are murdering great and small;
A Governor's word is worth more than twenty witnesses,
To their decrees do his Judges forge his signature;
His procedure is all by bribes, without interest is there nothing,
If one would gain for one's object some result;
Is there any one whose nature is ill-suited to these means?
Midst his court he wanders helpless in despair.
To the Physician yet say nothing, O Khush-hal!
For it is God the all-powerful who alone will cure thy ills!