Delhi and its fine lads
With their turbans and twisted beards
Openly drinking lovers’ blood
while secretly sipping wine.
Wilful and full of airs
they pay no heed to anyone.
So close to the heart, they rob
your soul and tuck it safely away.
When they are out for a stroll
rosebushes bloom in the street.
When the breeze strikes them from behind,
See how the turbans topple from their heads.
When they walk, the lovers follow,
Blood gushing from their eyes.
Their heads puffed up with beauty’s pride,
Their admirer’s hearts are gone with the wind.
These cheeky, simple Indian lads have made
Muslims into worshipers of the sun.
Those fair Hindu boys
Have led me to drunken ruin.
Trapped in the coils of their curly locks
Khusrau is a dog on a leash.
Poem by Amir Khusrau translated by Sunil Sharma