In the gentle sunlit garden this winter, I sat among dying leaves. The northern breeze- how mischievous! She played hide and seek with the trees and brought to life the grass, which swayed in rhythm to Ghalib's poetry playing in my ears.
The beauty of the golden light and the freshness of the unkempt grass reminds me of the fertile soil at home where you are. Yet as my gaze falls upon the tree near me, I see he stands tall with his arms spread proudly. He finds strength in knowing the spring shall come back one day.
And the little bird perched on this stage seemed to me to be declaring,
bāzīcha-e-atfāl hai duniyā mire aage
hotā hai shab-o-roz tamāshā mire aage *1
The melody of her song comforts me; this too is home. Here too, I am wrapped in the warmth of the sunlight, the way I could have been in your arms. Here too, the earth nurtures life. Here too, I breathe joy.
Here too, the circus continues. Here too, the children play.
My poor attempt at translation:
The world is nothing more than a children's playground in my eyes.
The daily happenings amuse me, for life is but a circus.
Link: full poem in Urdu
Link: full poem in Hindi