Taj-- perhaps a manifestation of love for you!
Maybe you venerate this colourful vale!
My darling! let's meet somewhere else --
What place do poor have in the royal courts?
Roads which are sealed by the monarch's stamp,
how could loving souls tread on such paths?
My love! hidden behind this proclamation of fidelity,
you ought to have seen the facade of royal grandeur.
So easily lured by the tombs of dead kings,
cast also a look on our gloomy abodes.
Innumerable people in this world have been in love,
who says they didn't carry genuine feelings?
They simply lacked the means for their display,
because they were also poor -- like you and me.
These buildings and tombs, forts and castles,
symbolic pillars of greatness by the despotic kings,
are cancerous sores on the breast of our earth,
soaked in them is the blood of our fore-parents.*
My darling! those people must also have loved,
whose skill has bestowed beauty upon this ediface.
The tombs of their own beloveds went unmarked,
no one ever lights a candle on their graves.
This garden, Jumna's¤ bank -- this lovely palace,
these engraved walls, arches and the recess!
An emperor, by merely relying upon his riches,
has mocked at the love of poor people like us.
My darling! let's meet somewhere else.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
BLOOD IS AFTER ALL BLOOD ,Sahir Ludhianvi
Cruelty is after all cruelty –
when it inflates, it dissipates.
Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.
It may congeal
On the desert’s chest,
or on the murderer’s sleeve;
On the faulty scales of justice,
or on the links of chains;
On the oppressive sword,
or on the slaughtered corpse.
Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.
One may hide in whichever shelter on likes,
blood itself reveals the executioner’s hide-out.
Conspiracies may cast around the veil of darkness,
yet, every drop of blood carries its own burning torch.
The blood which you tried to suppress in the abattoir,
today has rushed out in the streets and squares –
as a flame, or a battle-cry, or as a stone.
Once blood starts flowing,
the bayonets cannot restrain it.
Once blood lifts its head,
the ordinances cannot constrain it.
What is to be said about cruelty!
What is cruelty’s nature?
Cruelty is always cruelty –
from its beginning to its end.
Blood is after all blood,
It can take so many forms:
forms which cannot be destroyed,
flames which cannot be extinguished,
cries which cannot be silenced.
when it inflates, it dissipates.
Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.
It may congeal
On the desert’s chest,
or on the murderer’s sleeve;
On the faulty scales of justice,
or on the links of chains;
On the oppressive sword,
or on the slaughtered corpse.
Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.
One may hide in whichever shelter on likes,
blood itself reveals the executioner’s hide-out.
Conspiracies may cast around the veil of darkness,
yet, every drop of blood carries its own burning torch.
The blood which you tried to suppress in the abattoir,
today has rushed out in the streets and squares –
as a flame, or a battle-cry, or as a stone.
Once blood starts flowing,
the bayonets cannot restrain it.
Once blood lifts its head,
the ordinances cannot constrain it.
What is to be said about cruelty!
What is cruelty’s nature?
Cruelty is always cruelty –
from its beginning to its end.
Blood is after all blood,
It can take so many forms:
forms which cannot be destroyed,
flames which cannot be extinguished,
cries which cannot be silenced.
WAITING,Sahar Ansari
All night the rain by the window
creeping along the champac
drop after drop sent down the poison.
My eyes kept remembering your face.
In the morning, there was a heap of leaves
on the floor, the face of fallow earth.
A revenge—because I wait for the sun.
creeping along the champac
drop after drop sent down the poison.
My eyes kept remembering your face.
In the morning, there was a heap of leaves
on the floor, the face of fallow earth.
A revenge—because I wait for the sun.
VANITY / Vanity Thy Name Is… ,Parveen Shakir
He is so simple.
His world is so different from mine.
So separate are his dreams
and his preferences.
He says very little.
He writes
this morning I saw
some lovely flowers in the lawn
and thought of you.
I know
I am at that dishevelled stage of life
when my face
is not much like any flower.
But I wish—whatever he says—
I could believe it a while.
His world is so different from mine.
So separate are his dreams
and his preferences.
He says very little.
He writes
this morning I saw
some lovely flowers in the lawn
and thought of you.
I know
I am at that dishevelled stage of life
when my face
is not much like any flower.
But I wish—whatever he says—
I could believe it a while.
WHERE AM I? ,Parveen Shakir
Where am I
in your life?
In the morning breeze
or the evening star,
hesitant drizzle
or sharp rain,
silver moonlight
or hot noon,
deep thoughts
or casual tunes?
Where am I
in your life?
Down from work,
a weekend’s interval
on a beach,
or an unintended
silken release between your fingers
from serial smoke?
Or a readily replenished,
freshened moment without wine,
or a moment’s leave, anonymous,
between the breaking of one dream
of love and another’s beginning?
Where am I
in your life?
in your life?
In the morning breeze
or the evening star,
hesitant drizzle
or sharp rain,
silver moonlight
or hot noon,
deep thoughts
or casual tunes?
Where am I
in your life?
Down from work,
a weekend’s interval
on a beach,
or an unintended
silken release between your fingers
from serial smoke?
Or a readily replenished,
freshened moment without wine,
or a moment’s leave, anonymous,
between the breaking of one dream
of love and another’s beginning?
Where am I
in your life?
the people of machine,attiya dawood
To live a respectable life
We the people of big cities
Keep going on like robots.
To keep the home going
We are crushed to fine powder
Under the mill-stone of rising prices.
Home, for which we wove so many dreams,
In the mad race for it,
Our sleep got left behind.
Love and other such fine feelings,
Which are proof of good taste,
We keep them on display in the drawing room.
All the words we speak
Their dates have expired long ago,
The new words in our dictionary
Are miss-prints.We are like the deaf and dumb
We understand each other’s unspoken needs.
Like a well-practiced typist
His fingers move on my body’s key-board
And I give him
The results he wants.
We the people of big cities
Keep going on like robots.
To keep the home going
We are crushed to fine powder
Under the mill-stone of rising prices.
Home, for which we wove so many dreams,
In the mad race for it,
Our sleep got left behind.
Love and other such fine feelings,
Which are proof of good taste,
We keep them on display in the drawing room.
All the words we speak
Their dates have expired long ago,
The new words in our dictionary
Are miss-prints.We are like the deaf and dumb
We understand each other’s unspoken needs.
Like a well-practiced typist
His fingers move on my body’s key-board
And I give him
The results he wants.
Paths,MUNIR NIAZI
These paths, these lengthy paths!
Where do they lead to?
To some very ancient palaces --
Where some lost friends meet?
Perhaps, to the dense forests --
To scare us, like a vicious beast?
Or, after a round of aimless wandering,
Just bring us back to where we started!
Where do they lead to?
To some very ancient palaces --
Where some lost friends meet?
Perhaps, to the dense forests --
To scare us, like a vicious beast?
Or, after a round of aimless wandering,
Just bring us back to where we started!
A Simple Statement ,MUNIR NIAZI
If Death is all there in the fate!
Then why should we try evading it?
Why in our quest to forget it,
Should we surrender to mere illusions?
Why make some friends -- true or false,
And talk about the dreams -- in our hearts?
Why not just sit alone in the houses,
And then laugh -- like the lunatics do?
Then why should we try evading it?
Why in our quest to forget it,
Should we surrender to mere illusions?
Why make some friends -- true or false,
And talk about the dreams -- in our hearts?
Why not just sit alone in the houses,
And then laugh -- like the lunatics do?
Early in the Morning ,MUNIR NIAZI
First, the bangles clinked -- so softly,
Then, she woke me with a tender pinch.
Wouldn't meet my playful eyes!
Just kept on giggling, incessantly.
Then, she woke me with a tender pinch.
Wouldn't meet my playful eyes!
Just kept on giggling, incessantly.
NO TRACE OF BLOOD ,Faiz Ahmad Faiz
Nowhere, there is any trace of blood
Neither on the hands and nails of the slayers,
nor any sign on the sleeve.
No redness on the dagger's edge,
nor any colour on the spear's head.
No stains on the earth’s breast,
nor any smear on the ceiling.
Nowhere, there is any trace of blood
It was
Not spent in the service of kings,
to gain some bounty;
Nor offered in a religious rite,
to obtain absolution;
Nor spilled on the battlefield
to attain fame – as inscription on a banner.
It cried for attention –
that unprotected, helpless blood.
Yet, none had the time or the will –
to listen to that blood.
No accuser nor any witness –
just a ´clean sheet`
That blood from the figures of clay –
the Earth consumed it
Neither on the hands and nails of the slayers,
nor any sign on the sleeve.
No redness on the dagger's edge,
nor any colour on the spear's head.
No stains on the earth’s breast,
nor any smear on the ceiling.
Nowhere, there is any trace of blood
It was
Not spent in the service of kings,
to gain some bounty;
Nor offered in a religious rite,
to obtain absolution;
Nor spilled on the battlefield
to attain fame – as inscription on a banner.
It cried for attention –
that unprotected, helpless blood.
Yet, none had the time or the will –
to listen to that blood.
No accuser nor any witness –
just a ´clean sheet`
That blood from the figures of clay –
the Earth consumed it
O' TRUE GOD,Faiz Ahmad Faiz
O' true God! You had decreed:
"My Man! You are the king of the world,
My bounties are now your riches,
You are my deputy and viceroy."
After sending me away on this pretence,
Have you ever asked:
"How have you endured life, my Man?"
Have you ever enquired, O' My Lord!
How this world has treated your viceroy?
On the one hand there is intimidation by the police,
On the other there is persecution by the stewards.
This skeleton of mine carries a heart which trembles,
The way a sparrow flutters when caught in a trap.
What a king you have made? O' My Lord!
A chain of sufferings, not a moment's peace for him.
I do not wish any kingship, O' My Creator!
A bit of dignity shall suffice for me.
These palaces and mansions are not my choice,
A corner in life's fabric is all that I ask.
If you listen to me, then I will listen to you,
I swear in your name: "I shall never go astray."
But if this demand of mine is not met by you,
Then I must also search, and find a new God.
"My Man! You are the king of the world,
My bounties are now your riches,
You are my deputy and viceroy."
After sending me away on this pretence,
Have you ever asked:
"How have you endured life, my Man?"
Have you ever enquired, O' My Lord!
How this world has treated your viceroy?
On the one hand there is intimidation by the police,
On the other there is persecution by the stewards.
This skeleton of mine carries a heart which trembles,
The way a sparrow flutters when caught in a trap.
What a king you have made? O' My Lord!
A chain of sufferings, not a moment's peace for him.
I do not wish any kingship, O' My Creator!
A bit of dignity shall suffice for me.
These palaces and mansions are not my choice,
A corner in life's fabric is all that I ask.
If you listen to me, then I will listen to you,
I swear in your name: "I shall never go astray."
But if this demand of mine is not met by you,
Then I must also search, and find a new God.
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