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Muhammad Ali Jinnah Biography By Waqar Asghar Muhammad Ali Jinnah Biography is written By Prof. Waqar Asghar. The Writer is Assistant Professor Of History In G.C University Faisalabadsd. This Book Contains Biography Of Quiad's Life's last Days. To read book offline Click on Download Link given Below. Download Muhammad Ali Jinnah Biography By Waqar Asghar   MORE ON THIS BLOG All urdu poetry ,   Adventure urdu novels ,  Romantic urdu novels , Horror urdu novels ,  Islamic books urdu ,  urdu novels free download ,  urdu novels pdf ,  Imran Series .  Anwar Siddiqui novels ,  M A Rahat Novels ,  Dr Abdul Rab Bhatti Novels ,  Mazhar Kaleem MA Imran Series ,  Tariq Ismael Sagar novels ,  T ahir javed mughal novels ,  2 lines urdu poetry ,  4 lines Urdu Poetry , Urdu Ghazal ,  Kids Stories

Poem 34: Prayer to Diana By Gaius Valerius Catullus Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Latin We are unmarried youths and maidens In Diana's strength secure And as befits us, youths and maidens Let us now sing of Her. We sing to You, Latona's daughter,  Great child of greatest Jove Whose mother gave You birth within A Delian olive grove, To be the mistress of the mountains and greening woods, to rule wild hidden hinterlands, the resonant river, the calm deep pool.  Women in labor crying out call You light-bringer Juno. But You are Crossroad Trivia too And the light-borrowing Luna.  In monthly measures you divide The year's course, usher back The plenteous harvest of the farmer Into his rural shack. By any name you choose be pleased With this our worship. Hold The Roman Race safe in your strength As once you did of old.  The Original: Dianae sumus in fide puellae et pueri integri: Dianam pueri

Poem 2: The Sparrow By Gaius Valerius Catullus Translated by A.Z. Foreman Sparrow, my dear beloved's darling pet Which she would pet, and fondle in her lap Or tease with one slight finger's poke, provoking You to peck her back with mordant beak. Many's the time when my beloved, beaming Girl has a mind to turn to you for comfort, Hoping, I think, to find escape from sorrow Or something to relieve her of that ardor.  If only I could play the way she plays  With you, and have release from roiling passion. The Original: Passer, deliciae meae puellae, quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere, cui primum digitum dare appetenti et acris solet incitare morsus, cum desiderio meo nitenti carum nescio quid lubet iocari et solaciolum sui doloris, credo ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor: tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem et tristis animi levare curas!

Delfica G�rard de Nerval Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original French Daphne, do you still know that lay of yore By sycamore, white laurel, myrtle shade, By olive-tree, or trembling willow glade? That love song still beginning evermore? Recall that shrine great colonnades enclose? The bitter lemons where your teeth have pressed, The grotto, deadly to the reckless guest Where the slain dragon�s ancient seed repose? The gods you mourn for shall return at last Time will restore the order of days past. Prophetic gusts have shuddered through the lands While yet the Sybil with a Latin mien Sleeps underneath the arch of Constantine, And undisturbed the portico still stands.  The Original : Delfica La connais-tu, Dafn�, cette ancienne romance, Au pied du sycomore, ou sous les lauriers blancs, Sous l�olivier, le myrte, ou les saules tremblants, Cette chanson d�amour qui toujours recommence ?... Reconnais-tu le Temple au p�ristyle immense, Et les citrons amers o� s�i

The image of death as a kind of protracted sleep, and sleep as "but the picture" of death, is a near-universal one, familiar to readers of French and English poetry alike ("Death be not proud...", "For in that sleep of death..." etc.) as well as readers of Latin (Lucretius' famous passage, Vergil's consanguineus Leti sopor),  Persian, Arabic, Greek, Chinese, Hebrew and quite possibly every other poetic tradition on earth. Th�ophile, ever the realist in a classicizing world, turns the clich� on its head. The recording of the original French is in a reconstruction of pronunciation used by the upper classes of early 17th century Paris.  To Sleep By Th�ophile de Viau (1590 � 1626) Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in 17th century French Sleep! Father of dreams and minister of ease, Why call you death's image? You are not so.  The versifiers wronged you long ago, Passing that off for truth with falsities. We should tell

A brief passage (Act I, lines 85-95) from Moli�re's Le Misanthrope.  Translated, somewhat freely, for no other reason than that I sometimes know exactly how Alceste feels. If humans are equal in anything it is their ability to inspire disdain. As a friend of mine put it, regardless of race, creed, or national origin, I hate humans.  I also love humans, generally and paradoxically for the same reasons that I hate them (which is, incidentally, also true of Alceste in Moli�re's play, if you read carefully.)  The word "bullshit" has no exact warrant in Moli�re's French (the original says literally, and rather more decorously, "I can't take it anymore. I'm furious.") Though the English word "bullshit" does encapsulate, more or less precisely, the kind of foolishness, duplicity, affectation and unconcern with the truth which Alceste gets progressively more fed up with over the course of the play.  From The Misanthrope:  Alceste Has Had It Wit

Th�ophile de Viau's hometown of Clairac was a bastion of Protestantism in the late 16th and early 17th centuries, and in May of 1621, during the Huguenot rebellions, four thousand Protestant rebels held the city against a siege by Louis XIII under the slogan Ville Sans Roy, Soldats Sans Peur "City With No King, Soldiers With No Fear." The rebels had not prepared adequately for a siege, and the city of Clairac, faced with imminent famine after two weeks, surrendered to Louis XIII who summarily executed the rebel leaders and gave his men leave to massacre, terrorize, rape and torture the populace.  In 1622, Clairac was held briefly by Huguenot rebels again, and even more thoroughly devastated by urban warfare, and also by the Huguenots themselves just before they left it to the Catholics. In the spring of that year, Th�ophile revisited the city of his birth to find it largely ravaged and ruined, much of the surviving population traumatized and living in abject poverty, and

Nocturnal Emotions By Th�ophile de Viau (1590 � 1626) Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in early 17th century French I dreamt my Phyllis from the dead rose free, Her dark shade fair as she was in the sun Wanted one last seduction, wanted me To couple with a cloud like Ixion. Her specter glided naked and in heat Into my bed:  "My love! I'm back tonight, Grown only lovelier in that sad retreat Where Fate has held me since you left my sight,  To kiss again the finest lover's face, To die again in your hot arms' embrace."  When that phantasmic idol had spent me whole She said "Farewell. Back to the dead I go.  You bragged of having fucked my body. So  Can you now brag of having fucked my soul." Notes: L4: The mortal Ixion grew amorous of Hera. Zeus caught Ixion red handed by appearing to him as a cloud that seemed to be Hera but wasn't. When Ixion embraced the cloud, Zeus was sure of his betrayal, and punished him according

Helen By Paul Val�ry Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original French Azure! It's me...from death's caves I return To hear waves break resoundingly ashore, And see the galleys in the dawnlight born Again out of the dark on golden oar. My solitary hands call back those lords Whose salty beards pleased my pure fingertips; I wept. They sang their shady wars and swords, And the great gulfs fled sternward of their ships. I hear deep conches all along the shores, The war-horns cadencing the swing of oars The rowers' chanty fettering the fray; And at heroic prows the gods grown grand With ancient smiles insulted by the spray, Reach out to me with carved, indulgent hand. The Original: H�l�ne Azur! C'est moi... Je viens des grottes de la mort Entendre l'onde se rompre aux degr�s sonores, Et je revois les gal�res dans les aurores Ressusciter de l'ombre au fil des rames d'or. Mes solitaires mains appellent les monarques Dont la barbe de sel amusai

The punctuation and/or omission of it in my translation is (a) integral to the poem and (b) integral to my translation. The background music for the recording is a digitally retweaked orchestral version of the melody Captain Picard plays on his flute at the end of the Star Trek TNG episode "The Inner Light." Autumn Garden By Dino Campana Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original Italian Unto the ghost ly garden unto the laurels mute Of the green garlands Unto the autumn land One last salute! Out to the dried hillsides Reddened hard in the terminal sun Confounded into grumbles Gruff life afar is crying: Crying to the dying sun that sheds A blood that dyes the flowerbeds. A brass band plays Ear-piercingly away: the river fades Out amidst the gilded sands: in the quiet The great white statues stand at the bridgehead Turned: and what was once is now no more. And from the depths of quiet as it were a chorus Soft and splendorous Yearns its way to the heights o

The Piano By Anne H�bert Translated by A.Z. Foreman All it took was one light note One fingertap By one calm slave A single note a supple instant For the muffled clamor of offense Tucked at the back of black veins To rise and burst into the stirless air The master knowing not what to do Before such tumult Commands that the piano be closed Forever The Original: Le Piano Il a suffi d'une note l�g�re D'un seul doigt frapp�e Par un esclave tranquille Une seule note un instant tenue Pour que la clameur sourde des outrages Enfouis au creux des veines noires Monte et se d�charge dans l'air immobile Le maitre ne sachant que faire Devant ce tumulte Ordonne qu'on ferme le piano A jamais

In 1851 prince Louis-Napol�on Bonaparte staged a coup d'�tat which abolished the French National Assembly and reinstated the French Empire, with Louis-Napol�on as its emperor. Hugo went into exile, moving to the island of Jersey in the English channel.  Republican Exile By Victor Hugo Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original French Since men of honor sink in slime, Since the scepter is held by crime, Since rights have all been wronged away, Since all the proud lie beaten down And on streetposts through every town My country's shame is on display; Republic of our Fathers' right, Gold dome, great pantheon of light   Under the free and open blue, Oh temple of immortal shades! Since now the step-ladder brigades Paste empire to your walls with glue, Since hearts are beaten to the core Since we all crawl, since we ignore The right, the true, the great, the brave, The eyes of history in fury, The law, all honor and all glory  And those now gone into the grav

Sonnet 164 By Petrarch Translated by A.Z. Foreman Now at the hush of wind and earth and sky, Sleep bridles beasts and holds the birds aground, Night drives her star-lined chariot on its round, And, waveless, seas lie bedded, only I Still see and think and burn and rave and fret. My bringer of sweet pain undoes me more. In rage and tears, mine is a state of war And thoughts of Her are all the peace I get. Thus drink I sweet and bitter draughts that flow Forth from a single, living fountain's spray. One single hand both heals and deals each blow. To keep my ship of martyrdom at sea Have I a thousand births and deaths a day. So far is my salvation's port from me. The Original : Sonetto CLXIV Francesco Petrarca Or che �l cielo e la terra e �l vento tace, e le fere e gli augelli il sonno affrena, notte il carro stellato in giro mena, e nel suo letto il mar senz� onda giace; vegghio, penso, ardo, piango, e chi mi sface sempre m�� innanzi per mia dolce pena; guerra � �l mio stato, d�i

We know little about the trobairitz Lady Castelloza beside what her later  vida  records. The latter says that she was from Auvergne, the wife of Truc de Mairona, and the lover of Armant de Brion (both nobles, incidentally, though the latter would have been of higher social status than the former.) There is on the face of it no reason to either believe or disbelieve this. Given the basically mythic function that the troubadour  vidas  seem to serve, it is likely that this story was transmitted because at a later date it helped make some sense of the corpus of songs attributed to the poet. The modern reader is, therefore, free to ignore it if they wish.  To Her Lover Gone Away By Lady Castelloza (c. 13th cent.) Translated by A.Z. Foreman My darling, it has been so long Since from my arms you took your leave. And it is painful, cruel and wrong. You promised, pledged, made me believe That you would take no other lady Until the day death do us part. Now if some other holds your heart Then

In translating this widely-translated poem I have tried to bring to light a different side of it, to convey some of the obscene undertones present in Villon's word choices throughout the poem. Ballad of the Ladies of Yore By Fran�ois Villon Translated by A.Z. Foreman Click to hear me recite the original in Middle French So, tell me where on lands or seas Has Flora gone, the Roman belle, And Thais and Archipiades, Great twins of beauty as stories tell. And Echo who by brook and dell Answered the rising cock come dawn, And wove a more than mortal spell? Well, where could last year�s snows have gone? And where is learned Heloise For whom Pete Abelard once fell So hard he came to Saint Denis� Where his cut was a eunuch's cell? And where�s that dowager quaintrelle Who bagged her plaything Buridan  Then sent him down the Seine to Hell? Well, where could last year�s snows have gone? That lily quean whose tune could tease Sires even Sirens couldn't swell? Broad Bertha, Alice, Beatr