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 mountains And you are my beloved.

“Everybody Has A Bit Of The Sea”

Everybody has a little bit of the sea Every lover has a seashore Every sea knows the taste of waiting in vain, In every moment of waiting A wave dances in the rain, Ideas come to everybody Years come to everybody — huffing and puffing across centuries, There comes a fear In that fear situations, desires, Away from the fear, the situations, Comes a smouldering language. In everyman dances a peacock In everyman lurks a thief, Across everyman’s throat Glitters a whole age of swords, Each age a riddle Everyman has a riddle.

“A Poet’s Homeland”

A poet’s homeland Is in his eyes. He stands on dry land, Memories seek him out, come to him Like sea waves. He writes a few words He gets angry many times He doesn’t know what he wants. He turns to the village each time And today also He is thinking: in the village’s narrow lanes How good life must be! On a marble grave Moonbeams must be pouring out their light. He is thinking: The barrel of his brother’s gun Must still be warm And a few birds In the throes of death At the edge of the lake, And his brother’s red pony Must be restless at the sound of gunfire. Suddenly he goes further: “Life is elsewhere” It seems that he is walking With Milan Kundera’s silence. He peeps inside a Prague home Where a Czech girl Is curled up naked on the bed with a foreigner. O Kundera! You live in Paris But Life is Elsewhere. Yes, it is at the point From where Solzhenitsyn’s exile Rises like a sun. Or even further ahead — Where the wind sings In a voice sweeter than Umme Kulsoom’s In the date-palm trees once owned by Mahmoud Darwish’s grandparents.

He walks As far as his thoughts can take him. He lives As far as his eyes can see.