(After reading the letters of Julius and Ether Rosenberg, Faiz wrote this poem,
Montogomery Jail, 15th May, 1954.)




hum jo tareek rahooN maiN maarey gaey

tere hooToon ke pholooN ki chhaht maiN hum
daar ki Khushk Tehnee pay varey gaey
tere hathooN ki shamooN ki hasrat maiN hum
neem tareek raahooN maiN maarey gaey

sooliyooN par humarey labooN se parey
tere hooTooN ki lalee lapaktee rahee
teri zulfooN ki masti barastee rahee
tere haathooN ki chandee damaktee rahee

jab khulee teri raahooN maiN shaam-e-sitam
hum chaley aaey jahaaN tak laey qadam
lab pay harf-e-Ghazal, dil maiN qindeel-e-Ghum
apna Ghum tha, gavahee tere husn ki
dekh! qaim rahey is gavahee pay hum
hum jo tareek raahooN maiN maarey gaey

naarsai agai apni taqdeer thee
teri ulfat to apni he tadbeer thee
kisko shikva hai agar shouq ke silsiley
hijr ki qatal_gahooN se sab ja miley
qatal_gahooN se chun kar humarey alum
aur niklaiN gaiN usshaq ke qafley
jin ki raah-e-talab se humarey qadam
muKhtasar kar chaley dard ke fasley
kar chaley jin ki Khatir jahaaN_geer hum
jaaN gaNva ke teri dilbaree ka bharam
hum jo tareek rahooN main marey gaey

hum jo tareek rahooN main marey gaey
hum jo tareek rahooN main marey gaey
hum jo tareek rahooN main marey gaey

English Translation by Agha Shahid Ali from The Rebel’s Silhouette.

I longed for your lips, dreamed of their roses:
I was hanged from the dry branch of the scaffold.
I wanted to touch your hands, their silver light:
I was murdered in the half-light of dim lanes.
And there where you were crucified,
so far away from my words,
you still were beautiful:
color kept clinging to your lips–
rapture was still vivid in your hair–
light remained silvering in your hands.
When the night of cruelty merged with the roads you had taked,
I came as far as my feet could bring me,
on my lips the phrase of a song,
my heart lit up only by sorrow.
This sorrow was my testimony to your beauty–
Look ! I remained a witness till the end,
I who was killed in the darkest lanes.
It’s true– that not to reach you was fate–
but who’ll deny that to love you
was entirely in my hands?
So why complain if these matters of desire
brought me inevitably to the execution grounds?
Why complain? Holding up our sorrows as banners,
new lovers will emerge
from the lanes where we were killed
and embark, in caravans, on those highways of desire.
It’s because of them that we shortened the distances of sorrow,
it’s because of them that we went out to make the world our own,
we who were murdered in the darkest lanes.