six rubaiyaats by mirza arif, poem text
1 If an old tree-trunk sends out a tender sprout, Will one who knows give it a different name? The old order has just been pruned, No more, An idiot may, perhaps, call it democracy. 2 Bullets chase a poor fellow; bread Eludes his grasp Even in freedom helpless, hapless He Sheep like must submit to one who Kills. Butcher alone has changed; the cut Is as it used to be. 3 Will Hail, hail and public audiences Aught avail? Will mere bits of raw thread ever Dam the wounds? As long as the knife-blade reaches Not the abscess-root Will the commissions remedy the Nation’s cancer, ah? 5 The minister’s doggie frolics up the Sofa sets, Some kiss it some other embrace It. Behold the laborer , ah, still with The rope on his Shoulder, furrows on his Brow, Belly sunk in, heart aburn, liver Heating up. A cool capitalist you, O Chinar! Green you look in spring, turn Bloody in autumn. The empty-bellied poor you lull...