I will meet you again |
This poem was written in her sickbed for her partner, the painter Imroz
I will meet you yet again
How and where
I know not
Perhaps I will become a
figment of your imagination
and maybe spreading myself
in a mysterious line
on your canvas
I will keep gazing at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray
of sunshine to be
embraced by your colours
I will paint myself on your canvas
I know not how and where —
but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring
and rub foaming
drops of water on your body
and rest my coolness on
your burning chest
I know nothing
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes
all perishes
but the threads of memory
are woven of enduring atoms
I will pick these particles
weave the threads
and I will meet you yet again.
|
Kuwari (Virgin) |
From Kaghaz Te Kanvas
When I moved into your bed
I was not alone— there were
two of us
A married woman and a virgin
To sleep with you
I had to offer the virgin in
me
I did so
This slaughter is permissible
in law
Not the indignity of it
And I bore the onslaught of
the insult
The next morning
I looked at my blood stained
hands
I washed my hands
But the moment I stood
before the mirror
I found her standing there
The one whom I thought I
had slaughtered last night
Oh God!
Was it too dark in your bed
I had to kill one and I killed
the other?
|
My Home |
Today I have effaced number from my home
And I have rubbed off also the name of my street also
And I have wiped off the directions indicating the roads
But If you necessarily have to search me
Then you have to knock the doors in every street in every city of every country
And wherever you get the clue of a free soul
You must know that it is my home
|
Different Customes |
I am ready
But keep aside your body and keep it on the chair there
Like you have put off your shirt and the shoes
This is nothing serious
This is just different custom of different countries and people
|
Today I ask Warish Shah |
Today I ask Waris Shah to speak up from his grave,
And in his book of love add another page.
Once a daughter of Punjab wept and he wrote tirelessly for her,
Today thousands of daughters weep all calling Waris Shah.
O soother of the stricken, arise and see your Punjab!
Corpses are everywhere, the blood is flowing in Chenab!
Where once they heard love songs, the flute is now lost,
To all Ranjha’s brothers, the art of playing flute is lost
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