Mountains, deserts, barren lands, hot sunshine, cold nights, crying, laughing, laughing, falling into the ravines, fighting the situation, emerging as magicians in Urdu literature and film world. ” Safar is hidden inside this poem of Iqbal which became the nickname of "Sahir" and the lament of "Dagh".
In this lawn there will also be bubbles of Shiraz
There will be hundreds of poets, including Sahib Ijaz
Of course, we are all counted among those who love one sorcerer in hundreds and hundreds of sorcerers in one, because in the place of hatred we have to settle in love. Caste and religion, color, race whatever is inferior to man
If you accept this fact like me, then something will happen.
The life of a magician was today's life, he had no past and no future. He never saw yesterday and never lived in tomorrow. Living in the present and dying in the present. I think the magician sacrificed his life for the sake of the future of the people, the past was nothing but his humiliation, he did not need the reward of his efforts nor did he He told the story of his failed love. He said let my past be buried in the dark. My past is nothing but my humiliation, the result of my hopes is nothing but the reward of my efforts, an unspeakable torment, love failed. True life does not fail. Just like this, the magician emerged as the harbinger of the dawn of life. He was never oblivious to the love of the earth and the love of the people. The swamp in which he was being buried was his loneliness. There were days when it would be difficult to live and not to die.
Amrita Pritam says a phone call came at about two o'clock in the middle of the night on October 26 saying that the sorcerer was no more. The whole night of 20 days ago was found that night when I was in Bulgaria. The doctors said that your heart condition is alarming. I recited a poem ...
"Today my heart cares for its fruits in the river Duch"
And all of a sudden she started looking at her hands that these hands had married their bones in the river of her heart. Then how did these bones change? Was this deception eaten by hands or by death? Breaths are also in the air and the words of the poems are also in the air. Thinking, the wind can cover any distance, it used to cover cities. Now this world and this world will definitely determine the distance.
This is how the popular poet Habib Jalib remembers the "death of the Taj Mahal".
Throughout his life he loved the sorrows of the world
It will not be like any other human being
In every one of his poems there is pain and suffering of human beings
Every poem of his is a favor to man
He was not even a moment away from us dude
There is no such thing as a Hindu or a Muslim
Come decorate the times with his songs
If the spirit of the sorcerer has to do, rejoice
No comments:
Post a Comment