The Taste of Pain Persists

Are the chains broken?

Are the prisoners set free?

Are the accounts of pain closed?

Is there none broken by cruelty?

Is there none suffering from hunger?

Does the tiller owns the land?

Are the poets left heart-broken?

Are the flames of poetry dead?

Or lost in increasing din?

Who will now put lamps (of heads) on the killing post?

As the night of tyranny lingers on,

Will a Masiah come again?

Or would carry his own Cross?

Every sufferer of pain

The Urdu version

The Whisper of Happiness

Breeze’s gentle thumping of the flower,

Shower of the dew on petals,

The peace offer of the pleasant stroll,

Or a pleasant and intoxicating act,

For recapturing a refreshing dream,

Or a flowery hands’ thumping of the heart.

What is this! My God!

Who is looking for sparks?

Opening the book of life,

Turning it leaf by leaf!

Chapters of the book have slept,

Dreams of beauty spots have slept,

The pangs of youth have slept,

Questions are awake,

 but all the answers have slept.

Whose finger it is on life’s violin?

Tinkering like a stroke,

The tunes that have slept in the string,

Who has come to wake them up?

Is it the mad tide or a storm?

Breaking the silence of Hoogly,

Shaking the boat,

That had, a long time ago, crossed the river,

Carrying the tired boatsman,

In the arms of the quiet bank,

Waiting for the sure appearance

Of the trustworthy morning star.

The Urdu Version
The Urdu Version P2

The Pinch

O my pen! Come! Let me kiss you

A pain has woken up, perhaps,

For the pinch in my heart is increasing today.

Pains knocked at earlier also, but,

Wept hiding behind the door and the wall

Were not the sinners among the old, but

The world of anguish was alive, anyway, but

If one was in anguish there were sympathisers too

Behind curtains used to be the sinners,

An ointment used to be prescribed for every injury,

There used to be pains but with breaks and less severe.

The Urdu version

The Journey Continues

Blistered feet and wild frenzy,

Are co-travellers and colleagues

Got along with innocently.

And the childhood, an innocent bird,

Passed by somewhere on the way,

I saw it in despair.

Then there was a deceptive moonlight

Or a mirage,

Or say, it was an unheady wine.

It was youth or a curse

Passed by with a smile

But my co-travellers and colleagues are

Blistered feet and wild frenzy

The hell of a journey

Still continues.


The Urdu Version

The Gift of Injuries

I am the buyer,

I love every injury.

The gift I got from my fans

Is treasured in the vault of my heart,

Close to the lifeline.

And those given by the time are hidden

‘neath the shirt’s skirt

And where could I hide the injuries

That are all around me

Their traders entice me with?

Is there no buyer for them except me?

None is unwise, none is wiser?

I am the only buyer,

Is there no buyer at all?

The Urdu version

The Autumn

There were fruits and flowers on this tree,

Stones came from children

As if showers of flowers!

What a shadow! What a wall!

Many a tired and stricken,

Many a lovely and the sad,

Stopped here for a while and then moved on.

As if it was the path mark.

They stretched here

With youthful excitement,

With sweet smelling breath,

With wild gossips,

Came and sat under the shadow,

Chattering.

But as the autumn arrived

Neither children, nor the older ones

Nor the tired traders anymore.

In a matter of days,

They will come with hatchets

The Urdu version

The Subdued Fire

The spring is withering though,

That very autumn will be celebrated

Must be remembering the days,

Of spring celebrations every day.

Don’t believe the leaves and twigs,

Dried and parched,

They still hide the fire within,

Flames are still asleep,

Asleep is the outburst of sparks.

Don’t provoke them,

Don’t provoke now


The Urdu Vesion