S. R. Faruqi:

(1) Is it the bulbul that's in the cage, shorn of wings and feathers? Or is it I?
Does the rose have a heart in tatters, or do I?

(2) Does the sun rise every morning in such radiant splendor, or do you?
Does the morning dew have eyes suffused with tears, or do I?

(3) Well, if I survive, I will expose the bulbul's boast.
In the dry season when the rose departs, will he embrace death, or will I?

(4) Look, here's your sword, here's the basin to receive my head.
Here I am--does anyone else play so lightly with his life as I?

(5) I am wordless while you rain down sword strokes on me.
Would anyone else in the world let such things pass other than I?

(6) What else can I say of my ruination in my search for her?
Did the breeze ever wander homeless so much from place to place as I?

(7) I promptly came to know when you were trapped somewhere,
dear heart. Who else keeps so informed a vigil over you as I?

(8) I live and weep with my heart in shreds, oh Mir!
Have you ever heard of anyone else who chopped his heart to mincemeat but I?

 

FWP:

(inspired by SRF's translation)

(1) Is the caged Nightingale wingless and featherless, or am I?
Does the rose have such a torn-up liver, or do I?

(2) Does the morning sun rise with such light, or do you?
Does the dew bear such wet eyes, or do I?

(3) If I live, I will do what the Nightingale pledged.
This autumn, without the rose-- will he die, or will I?

(4) Here's the sword, here's the basin, here am I to be slain.
Who plays so lightly with his life as I?

(5) You attack me with swords; I will keep my mouth shut.
Does anyone in the world let this pass, other than I?

(6) In this search, the ruination-- what more can I say?
The breeze has not gone from door to door as much as I.

(7) When you went and got ensnared somewhere, news came to me.
Who else keeps as much track of you, oh heart, as I?

(8) I live, and I weep-- it's a much-loved 'liver-piece', Mir!
Have you heard of any such 'minced-liver' man, as I?

 

Zahra Sabri:

Zahra Sabri is a special guest translator for this site.

(1) Is the imprisoned nightingale more wingless or featherless, or am I?
The rose hardly has a liver more tattered than do I

(2) Is it the morning sun that emerges with such radiance, or you?
Is this damp eye held by the dew, or I?

(3) If I live on, I will show up the nightingale’s claim
Without the rose, this autumn, will he lie dead, or I?

(4) Here is the sword, here the basin, and here, worthy of beheading, is me
Who is there who trifles with his life more rashly than I?

(5) You slash me with your sword, and I remain struck dumb
Does anyone in the world blink at such things more than I?

(6) In this quest, even further ruin – then what can I say?
The morning breeze has not been driven to such drifting as I

(7) When you went and became entangled somewhere, I felt it right here
Who is there, oh heart, who keeps abreast of your news as much as I?

(8) I live, and weep: Mir, it is a precious fragment of liver
Have you ever heard anyone make mincemeat of their liver as do I?