सीने में जलन आँखों में तूफ़ान सा क्यूँ है

सीने में जलन आँखों में तूफ़ान सा क्यूँ है
इस शहर में हर शख़्स परेशान सा क्यूँ है

दिल है तो धड़कने का बहाना कोई ढूँडे
पत्थर की तरह बे-हिस ओ बे-जान सा क्यूँ है

तन्हाई की ये कौन सी मंज़िल है रफ़ीक़ो
ता-हद्द-ए-नज़र एक बयाबान सा क्यूँ है

हम ने तो कोई बात निकाली नहीं ग़म की
वो ज़ूद-पशेमान पशेमान सा क्यूँ है

क्या कोई नई बात नज़र आती है हम में
आईना हमें देख के हैरान सा क्यूँ है

--- अख़लाक़ मुहम्मद ख़ान 'शहरयार'

We Love What We Have

We love what we have, no matter how little,
because if we don’t, everything will be gone. If we don’t
we will no longer exist, since there will be nothing here for us.
What’s here is something that we are still
building. It’s something we cannot yet see,
because we are part
of it.
Someday soon, this building will stand on its own, while we,
we will be the trees that protect it from the fierce
wind, the trees that will give shade
to children sleeping inside or playing on swings.

--- Mosab Abu Toha

MORḠ-E SAḤAR (Dawn bird),

Morḡ-e saḥar, nāla sar kon!
dāḡ-e marā tāzatar kon
z-āh-e šararbār in qafas-rā
baršekan o zir o zabar kon
bolbol-e par-basta ze konj-e qafas dar-ā
naḡma-ye āzādi-e nawʿ-e bašar sarā
w-az nafas-i ʿarṣa-ye in ḵāk-e tuda-rā
por šarar kon, por šarar kon
ẓolm-e ẓālem, jawr-e ṣayyād
āšiān-am dāda bar bād
ey ḵodā, ey falak, ey ṭabiʿat
šām-e tārik-e mā-rā saḥar kon
nowbahār ast, gol ba bār ast
abr-e časm-am žala-bār ast
in qafas čun del-am tang o tār ast
šoʿla fekan dar qafas ey āh-e ātašin
dast-e tabiʿat, gol-e ʿomr-e marā mačin
jāneb-e ʿāšeq negar ey tāza gol---az in
bištar kon, bištar kon, bištar kon
morḡ-e bidel, šarḥ-e hejrān
moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar kon

ʿomr-e ḥaqiqat ba-sar šod
ʿaḥd o wafā pey-separ šod
nala-ye ʿāšeq, nāz-e maʿšuq
har do doruḡ o bi-aṯar šod
rāsti o mehr o moḥabbat fasāna šod
qawl o šarāfat hamagi az miāna šod
az pey-e dozdi, waṭan o din bahāna šod, dida tar šod
ẓolm-e malek, jawr-e arbāb
zāreʿ az ḡam gašta bitāb
sāḡar-e aḡniā por mey-e nāb
jamʿ-e mā por ze ḵun-e jegar šod
ey del-e tang nāla sar kon
az qawi-dastān ḥaẕar kon
az mosāwāt ṣarf-e-naẓar kon
sāqi-e gol-čehra, bedeh āb-e ātašin
parda-ye delkaš bezan, ey yār-e delnešin
nāla bar-ār az qafas ey bolbol-e ḥazin
k-az ḡam-e to sina-ye man
por šarar, por šarar, por šarar šod.

Dawn bird, lament!
Make my brand burn even more.
With the sparks from your sigh, break
And turn this cage upside down.
Wing-tied nightingale come out of the corner of your cage, and
Sing the song of freedom for human kind.
With your fiery breath ignite,
The breath of this peopled land.
The cruelty of the cruel and the tyranny of the hunter
Have blown away my nest.
O God, O Heavens, O Nature,
Turn our dark night to dawn.
It’s a new spring, roses are in bloom
Dew drops are falling from my cloudy eyes
This cage, like my heart, is narrow and dark.
O fiery sigh set alight this cage
O fate, do not pick the flower of my life.
O rose, look towards this lover,
Look again, again, again.

O heart-lost bird, shorten, shorten, shorten,
The tale of separation.

Truth’s life has come to an end
Faith and fidelity have been replaced by the shield of war.
Lover’s lament and beloved’s coyness,
Are but lies and have no power.
Truth, love and affection are but myths
Oath and honour are but vanished.
For thieving, country and religion are pretexts, eyes are wet
Landlord’s cruelty, master’s tyranny,
The farmer’s restless from sorrow.
The cup of the rich is full of pure wine,
Our cup is filled with our heart’s blood.
O anxious heart, cry out aloud
And avoid those who have powerful hands,

Count not on justice.
O rosy-cheeked cup-bearer, give the fiery water,
Play a joyful tune, O charming friend.
O sad nightingale lament from your cage.
Because of your grief my heart is
Full of sparks, sparks, sparks.

--- Moḥammad-Taqi Bahār

The morning after / my death

I know flowers shine strongerthan the sun
their eclipse means the end of times
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.

—Etel Adnan

फरसा

हमारा जातक भी
जातक कथाओं में
अपनी माता को
जाँता से आटा
बनाते हुए देखता है
उनका मिथकीय पात्र
फरसा लिए
कभी खेत में नहीं जाता
माँ की हत्या के लिए जाता है
इस तरह
गेंहू पैदा हुआ ही नहीं
श्रम कभी देखा ही नहीं
बेशर्म सदा मांग कर खाया
फरसा भी सदा क़त्ल के लिए उठाया
एक किसान यही सोचकर
पसीने से फरसा पोछकर
अपनी टूटी हड्डियाँ जोड़कर
सो गया खेत की मेड़ पर।

 
- बच्चा लाल 'उन्मेष'

A Country Called Song

I lived in a country called Song:
Countless singing women made me
a citizen,
and musicians from the four corners
composed cities for me with mornings and nights,
and I roamed through my country
like a man roams through the world.

My country is a song,
and as soon as it ends, I go back
to being a refugee

--- Najwan Darwish, 

Tr. by Kareem J. Abu-Zeid

On Killing A Tree

It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife

Will do it. It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leperous hide
Sprouting leaves.

So hack and chop
But this alone wont do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.

No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out - snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.

Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.

-- Gieve Patel
(From POEMS, published by Nissim Ezekiel, Bombay 1966)