These poems have been translated from the Sindhi by Asif Farrukhi and Shah Mohammed Pirzada

“A Poem For The Cold Season”

Warm waters of love spring from my heart.

How cold it is now, It was never so cold before, Not even in the days Of frost and snow, Warm waters of love spring from my heart.

Girl beautiful as the birds from a cold climate!

My ten fingers Are lit up like lamps Then why does silence reign in the land of your soul And why is it Cold as death?

Whatever conversation My hands have With your body Is all fire, Then why are you silent?

Why are you not a song?

Why are you not an aria?

Before you turn into A snow-figure lying at home Let us take a walk to hell.

“The Wind Is The Sea’s Lover”

You think that marriage Is the ultimate reality Which will take you away from me, But don’t you think it is enough That the sky is a friend of the clouds Trees are the sons of the earth The wind is the sea’s lover Waterfalls are the laughter of the mountainsAnd you are my beloved.

“Everybody Has A Bit Of The Sea”

Everybody has a little bit of the seaEvery lover has a seashoreEvery sea knows the taste of waiting in vain,In every moment of waitingA wave dances in the rain,Ideas come to everybodyYears come to everybody —huffing and puffing across centuries,There comes a fearIn that fear situations, desires,Away from the fear, the situations,Comes a smouldering language.In everyman dances a peacockIn everyman lurks a thief,Across everyman’s throatGlitters a whole age of swords,Each age a riddleEveryman has a riddle.

“A Poet’s Homeland”

A poet’s homelandIs in his eyes.He stands on dry land,Memories seek him out, come to himLike sea waves.He writes a few wordsHe gets angry many timesHe doesn’t know what he wants.He turns to the village each timeAnd today alsoHe is thinking:in the village’s narrow lanesHow good life must be!On a marble graveMoonbeams must be pouring out their light.He is thinking:The barrel of his brother’s gunMust still be warmAnd a few birdsIn the throes of deathAt the edge of the lake,And his brother’s red ponyMust be restless at the sound of gunfire.Suddenly he goes further:“Life is elsewhere”It seems that he is walkingWith Milan Kundera’s silence.He peeps inside a Prague homeWhere a Czech girlIs curled up naked on the bed with aforeigner.O Kundera!You live in ParisBut Life is Elsewhere.Yes, it is at the pointFrom where Solzhenitsyn’s exileRises like a sun.Or even further ahead —Where the wind singsIn a voice sweeter than Umme Kulsoom’sIn the date-palm trees once owned byMahmoud Darwish’s grandparents.

He walksAs far as his thoughts can take him.He livesAs far as his eyes can see.