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 to
Sleep.
6
What fire, then, is it that consumes
You within?
This, the Hindus day; that, the
Afgans, O!
Different are the days of Bhagavan
And Rahman.
Blessed indeed the day when people
Say our own day has come.
Arif aspires to see the day of Man
Adawn.
Comments
Post a Comment