And then there’s you,
sitting in burning fire and lost in dreams of flowers.
Every scream from my heart calls out to you in vain.
Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
Solicitation
Filled with noise of brisk footsteps
a pathway with lawns and meadows on either side
a paradise of colors all around.
Hundreds of flowerbeds toward which
no passerby casts a glance.
A branch laden with crimson flowers
leans out, spreads itself across the path
rubs her forehead on the gravel
touches the feet of passersby:
“I don’t come by every day.
My time to go is almost here.
I beg you, look my way.”
Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
Sons of Stony Mountains
Sons of those regions of my land where, for centuries, treeless rocks have stood alone,
where only harsh seasons and a lifelong flood of pain exist—
Sons of stony mountains,
glowing jasmine petals, fragments of jagged rock,
gentle, soft, milky white bodies, and hard, rough, darkened hearts.
Seared by sun and wind,
fallen from the cliffs, they search for their homeland in the dust beneath their feet.
Homeland—a pile of unwashed dishes—
that sweating labor searches from place to place.
Homeland—traveling darkness that,
pausing in towns by streams that tumble from high mountains,
has become smoke rising from some tin roof.
The stream, sprinkled gold dust, and the smoke, sprinkled gold dust.
But in the priceless current of sweat and water,
if those who would kill conscience were to appraise
the surge of pain that is the measure of life,
the black rocks of hearts would melt.
Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
Spring
Every time, in the same way, the world
molds flower buds of yellow mustard from a lump of gold,
and the breeze holds them in its undulations.
Every time, in the same way, branches
laden with bourgeoning shoots,
leaning against spikes of fences along the way…what do they think? Who knows.
Every time, in the same way, raindrops
filtering through clouds brimming with color
come to rattle against the copper sheet that spreads into the distance.
Every year, a season, just like this,
every time, this scent of absence,
every morning, these harsh tears. When will the times of mourning come?
Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi
GUL KHAN NASEER
I Am a Rebel
I am fire, lightning, sword
I am cannon, bomb, vengeance
challenge, proclamation, embodiment of God’s will
I fight the tyrant
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
Fettered, they, but I am free
Not the ruled, I am the ruler
not deceitful, I bring relief
not a thief
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
Gold and silver are not my gods
I don’t barter away my country
nor do I bark for a piece of bread
I toil and labor
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
Arrows and guns are but toys to me
I drive thieves into the hereafter
decree servility a crime and sin
seize freehold grants
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
I fight for rights
I color my land with my blood
I squeeze my enemy
I tell the truth
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
I keep a close eye on predators
I uproot injustice and cruelty
I am my motherland
free from bondage
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
Workers must remain united
The wealth of life I am willing to sacrifice
I am a rebel, I am a rebel
Translated from Balochi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Towering Ramparts
Towering ramparts of stone and brick,
with strong doors and chains of steel—
jails and prisons have been created, but nothing
can confine high ideals.
Even if tyrants and oppressors, no matter where,
are able to construct such forts
and torture
inmates in fetters and stocks
and fill up the prison cells,
the light of high ideals
will fall beyond prison walls
and the hearts of freedom-loving youth
be illuminated by those who have embraced the struggle.
The ministers appointed by tyrants
intoxicated by their addiction to silver and gold,
proud of their cannons and guns,
indulge in murder and slaughter—
but against people mad with rage
their power and money are impotent.
Nor does the slippery talk of these brokers
hold up against the conflagration
that rises from the inflamed breast
and, through the guidance of the wise,
mingles with the surging blood
descending like lightning on prison houses.
The fury and vehemence of the seething population,
like a fire that sweeps through a forest,
like an ocean tempest
or raging torrents of monsoon rains,
will burn to ash and wash away
jails, prisons, and forts,
masters and their palaces—
blow them away like dust and ash,
to clear the space for a new world.
Towering ramparts of stone and brick,
with strong doors and chains of steel—
jails and prisons have been created, but nothing
can confine high ideals.
Translated from Balochi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
Will Not Be Silent
O my mortal enemy! Alive, I will not be silent
As long as a tongue moves in my mouth, I will not be silent
You can kill, you can burn and tyrannize
Yet even on the gallows I will speak the truth: I will not be silent
I am not a moth that goes up suddenly in flame
I am a candle that burns until morning: I will not be silent
As long as the fire in my breast does not consume
desert and mountain, I will not be silent
As long as my brave young fighters do not overturn
the world of greed and profit, I will not be silent
As long as peasants, with their own peaceful labor
are unable to fill their bellies, I will not be silent
As long as cowherds and camel drivers
are hungry and discontent, I will not be silent
As long as I do not tear up from its roots the world
of my masters, I will not be silent
How long can the tortures of prison silence me?
Even in a rain of arrows I will not be silent
Consumed by fire, body exhausted, heart broken in two
Even so, if there is one breath of life, I will not be silent
I have given a rake’s word to Naseer
I shall have freedom or death—I will not be silent
Translated from Balochi by Azmat Ansari and Waqas Khwaja
GHANI KHAN
Devadasi
Doves coo and robins sing,
the gentle wind blows playfully in waves.
Morning comes with laughter and light
as flower buds
exclaim in joy, “What a delight is the breeze!”
Time reaches another stopping place, another night recedes—
one spent it with a lover, another sobs, alone.
All night I sat in a world of many hues,
mixing color and sensation to paint and draw.
Enchanted by some pretty face, I drank the sorrows of the heart;
her looks withered, she lost all color.
Should I paint Layla, or Shirin, or Mansur?
In every eye, I am there—my pain, my dreams.
I take two colors, black and red, and paint Chengiz or Timur:
the fury in their eyes leaps from the fire of my own.
Into this burning madness, a sorrowful goddess arrives—
not Layla, Shahai, Hira, or Shirin.
Her beauty, a poet’s dream!
Her heavy eyes, stricken by grief, drunk with longing,
each look, each gesture, caught in the glow of youthful desire,
her presence luminous, the color of new love.
“Look at me, painter,” she said, “at what I am!
A wretched devadasi, that most humble of creatures.”
“You are the very daughter of beauty,” I replied, “a brilliant princess!
For your burning eyes, one would renounce a thousand thrones.
Mistress of sorrows, you are a goddess born of blossoming flowers.
In the bloom of spring and youth, why these autumnal colors?
Your lips are not lips, but a libation of desire,
secret vintner, a tempest lies in each drop of your wine.
What dark, forbidding mountains exist in this lovely world!
You are a slender rose branch, and autumn is still far.
Let be your twenty masks, but discard the one of grief—
let laughter enter your garden and brighten the world.
You are not a stone image! You are the slave of a stone image: your eyes glitter.
You are wine and saqi both—intoxicate your lover!
What is beauty without one to admire it? What is love without a lover?
The world that cannot see your splendor is without eyes.
Devotion, love, and desire light every movement, every gesture of yours.
But a grim design has shadowed your life’s candescent passion.
Come and sit beside me, I am kin to your desire!
You are a desert flower—I, too, am one,
I, too, aggrieved, afflicted, obliged by life to weep.
Blood and love, they both cry, in yearning for a lover.”
Looking at me, she smiled, but her eyes brimmed with tears.
Holding tight her black shawl, quietly she walked away.
Her hope, her longing, twinkled like a guiding star
wandering the desert in search of roses.
In the dancer’s step, in the grace of the branching rose,
I lost the world of passion and beauty when I recovered my sense.
She left in my heart a new pain and a bright heat,
a golden particle of radiance from the light infusing the world.
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi and Waqas Khwaja
O Ghani! O You Ass, Ghani!
O Ghani! O you ass, Ghani!
Ghani of Hashtnagar!
Humble Ghani, grand Ghani,
Both the same, Ghani—
Ghani of plains and hills,
of land and sea, Ghani!
Are you aware, Ghani,
is the heart in charge, or is it the head, Ghani?
You will never bow to anyone
your proud head, Ghani!
What is this street of goldsmiths, Andhar Shahr,
where no one recognizes gold, Ghani?
Senseless even when sane,
your drunken head, Ghani!
When sober, flushed—
not worth calling a head, Ghani!
When and why, Ghani?
Come tell me soon, Ghani.
A star shining far away
catches my eye, Ghani.
Friend, let us go there—
you have grown wings, Ghani!
O Khan of Khans, Ghani!
O Ghani! O you ass, Ghani!
Life, Ghani, distraction, Ghani,
eyes and eyesight, Ghani!
Keep love, beloved, and beauty—
let all else pass, Ghani.
Stay away from lakes and whirlpools
lest you tumble in and perish, Ghani.
The hunt lasts a lifetime,
in the end the prey will fall, Ghani!
The love of humanity,
like heavenly Kausar from barren sands, Ghani!
Nowhere further to go—
this is the mountain peak, Ghani.
Sit down, calm yourself,
forget your cares, O my heart, Ghani!
This is the desert of love,
don’t leave it, Ghani.
Friend, where were you deceived, alas?
O Ghani! O you ass, Ghani!
You gave the call for morning prayer—
it is afternoon, Ghani!
O Ghani! O you ass, Ghani!
Ghani of Hashtnagar! O Ghani!
Translated from Pashto by Pervez Sheikh and Waqas Khwaja
Question or Answer
Speak, mullah, speak!
Is life a question or answer?
Is it a consummation of love or a mad obsession?
Rest or agitation?
Is life an imam or a lover?
The pulpit or the throne room?
Or, in a wayward world,
the mirage of a beautiful dream?
A moment to snatch light
from the darkness of the universe?
Is life question or answer?
Speak, mullah, speak!
Life is pharaoh and presumption—
or is it madness and ecstasy?
Is it Nimrod’s throne of gold,
or the lurid death of Mansur?
Lovely, full of smiles,
or Yazid, swelling with pride?
Is it spring, or the rose,
half hidden from the eye?
Is life question or answer?
Speak, mullah, speak!
An intoxicating cup of wine,
or a beggar’s broken bowl?
The fuddled face of Khayyam,
or the shrewd countenance of the fool Bahlol?
A rose garden splashed with color,
or a hedge of fiery thorns?
Is it escape or flight?
Flight from oneself?
Is life question or answer?
Speak, mullah, speak!
Life is beauty that spreads—
or is it beauty that vanishes?
Music that laments its own demise,
or a flaming fire?
Is there a resting place on the way,
or merely breath in pursuit of another breath?
Or is it buckets on a water wheel,
Or light expanding endlessly,
unaware of its glory?
Is life question or answer?
Speak, mullah, speak!
Translated from Pashto by Sher Zaman Taizi and Pervez Sheikh
Search
a summer noon
like winter night
silence
and tranquility
the soft cooing of doves
nothing stirs, nothing moves
time pauses
with its foot in the stirrup
the world attends its beating heart
auditing accounts of life and death
a smile haunts the atmosphere
as of one hearing the rabab in a dream
and I, alone
sunk in
my grief
go about seeking
a lost
helpless
traveler—
lying on the ground
I travel
the skies
I, too, listening to my heartbeat
seeking the root and cause of life
the argument for pain and death
why? and for what?
lost in rivers
in the wine cup
and in the wine
in the flame-red book
on the shelf in a mosque—
for death and life
I seek a connection
quietly, secretly
in silence
I…
in the notes of the sitar
I seek the theme
in the colors all around
in slate-gray pigeons
I seek the meaning of my existence
I am mad, mad indeed
seeking Plato in the tavern
when I turn my eyes to myself
only
death
negation and absence
I see
I am mad, mad indeed
seeking life in the eyes of death
a summer noon
like winter night
silence
and tranquility
somewhere, far away
a spark
of light
a star
or a fire out in the desert
says
to me
with its tiny rays
“if a mountain is high
a passage runs through it”
what
if life
is a lost
moment
of awareness?
one
eternal
beloved it has for company
O heart! do you deceive yourself or me?
how can I extricate myself from these tangles?
O heart! O deceiving heart!
you engage yourself in pleasing me
but if I ignore what you say
I am ruined
yes, truly
I will go mad
in the black waters of bewilderment
now I swim, now sink
I lose my way in the dark
here, in my own fire, burn
living, I decay and turn to dust
drown in my own blood
the summer noon
like winter night
silence, and tranquility