Music: Chitragupta
Lyrics: Prem Dhawan
Philosophical/Didactic Song of Rafi: Ay maut buraa ho teraa...
Roman Transliteration/English Translation of the original Urdu-Hindi Lyrics:
milay Khaak me.n naujawaa.n kaise kaise…
SO MANY SORTS OF YOUTHS HAVE MIXED IN THE DUST!
zamee.n khaah gayee aasmaa.n kaise kaise…
SO MANY SORTS OF HEAVENS HAS THE EARTH SWALLOWED!
ay maut buraa ho teraa,
O DEATH, WOE BETIDE YOU!
tuune ghar naa koi bhee chho.Daa,
YOU HAVEN’T SPARED A SINGLE HOME
kisee aa.nkh kaa motee chheenaa,
YOU SNATCHED THE PEARL OF SOMEONE’S EYES,
kisee Daal se phool hai to.Daa,
FROM SOME BOUGH YOU PLUCKED A FLOWER,
ay maut buraa ho teraa…
O DEATH, WOE BETIDE YOU!
mann kyaa kyaa aas lagaaye,
WHAT NOT HOPES THE HEART HAS!
sapno.n ke mahal banaaye,
BUILDS A PALACE OF DREAMS,
mann kyaa kyaa aas lagaaye,
WHAT NOT HOPES THE HEART HAS!
sapno.n ke mahal banaaye,
BUILDS A PALACE OF DREAMS,
par teree ik Thokar se,
BUT WITH A SINGLE KICK FROM YOU
sab maaTee me.n mil jaaye,
EVERYTHING MIXES IN THE DUST,
dikhte.n hai.n wahaa.n veeraane.n,
RUINS ARE VISIBLE THERE
mu.nh tuune jidhar bhee mo.daa,
WHEREVER YOU TURNED YOUR FACE!
ay maut buraa ho teraa…
O DEATH, WOE BETIDE YOU!
kahee.n detee behnaa duhaaee,
A SISTER BEWAILS SOMEWHERE,
tuune chheenaa hai kyoo.n meraa bhaaee,
WHY HAVE YOU SNATCHED AWAY MY BROTHER?
kahee.n detee behnaa duhaaee,
A SISTER BEWAILS SOMEWHERE,
tuuune chheenaa hai kyoo.n meraa bhaaee,
WHY HAVE YOU SNATCHED AWAY MY BROTHER?
mai.n baa.ndh toh letee raakhee,
AT LEAST I COULD HAVE TIED A ‘RAKHI’
tujhe itnee dayaa bhee naa aayee,
YOU‘D NOT EVEN THIS MUCH OF CLEMENCY !
kyaa hotaa jo tuu de detee
WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU’D SPARED
jeevan kuchh aur bhee tho.Daa,
THE LIFE A BIT LONGER!
ay maut buraa ho teraa,
O DEATH, WOE BETIDE YOU!
tuune ghar naa koi bhee chho.Daa,
YOU HAVEN’T SPARED A SINGLE HOME
kisee aa.nkh kaa motee chheenaa,
YOU SNATCHED THE PEARL OF SOMEONE’S EYES,
kisee Daal se phool hai to.Daa,
FROM SOME BOUGH YOU PLUCKED A FLOWER,
ay maut buraa ho teraa…
O DEATH, WOE BETIDE YOU!
NASIR.
He hath no pity, — nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnished and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—
In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray . . .
There is no King more terrible than Death.
(The Dance of Death by Henry Austin Dobson)
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