Poems by Ayub Khawar / Translated By Muhammad Shanazar

Poems by Ayub Khawar





Translated By Muhammad Shanazar





Mother


O! Mother,
When dust rises
From underneath your steps,
Something echoes
In hollowness of the heart,
The share my sight got up till now
Is the poison of your silent lips,
My eyes only have to see dust
Underneath your blood dripping steps,

The youth harvesting the brimming crops from the farms which destination has been departed?
I don’t know
But I remember your deserted eyes
Telling me the tales of pale flowers

What are the wages
You have earned in your troubled time
Except your sons,
I don’t have any awareness.
In the winter,
While burning the dry leaves,
We shared the petty minds,
The tales of elites,
And observed a world of dreams
In the glow of your waking eyes,
At the time of dawn
We listened to the sound,
Amid the grindstones, and your sore hands,
As if it was the melody of your soul.
Ah! That song has been lost,
You too have become silent now,
And hollowness of the heart
Remains behind same like as earlier.

O! Mother,
In my heart,
The radiance of your motherhood
Descends even now,
But the moment of confession always
Remained unaccomplished.
My heart wishes to ask you
If I come across,
Which cumbersome crag
Your hands carry that my countenance pants
For the gentle touch of your hands.


O! Mother
Which are consolations of the troubled time
That you are still living in?
Which are the deserts
Where your rivers till now
Weep flowing through?
Which are the forests and mountains
Wherefrom travel through the drab silence
Of your oldness?
Which are the frail shadows
Where jasmine of your fate is decaying?

O! Mother
It is you or some canopy,
That weavers in the air
Of insipid weather
Getting itself lost
From defeated grips of cords.
It is me or some shadow of your motherhood,
That broke from the cool light
And now sinks down into the dark void,
Now we both in claim of the evidence of love,
Confronting hearts,
Question to God,
”When will be hosted, the Day of Judgment?”




A Night in Grief


Nothing it is,
The mirror, the moon, the decanter,
All are empty,
The page of heart has lost reverence of the words
And meanings like a throne
Of a condemned emperor,
My existence suspends in the span of time,
The mirror has become
A door of contrition,
And my obsolete reflection
Is annoyed with the mirror.

In the folds of time,
There is neither any fresh branch of the morn,
Nor any elegant eve,
But only the pigment of grief.

O! The lunatic wind of the countenance
Of the world of future,
Now there should descend
Some divine messages,
From the blue plate of moon,
But in silences of the night
Of the wilderness,
There exists such a profound dark
As I cannot see, falling moments from the hands,
The lances hitting the astonished eyes
Cannot be stopped.
Except perpetual grief,
There exists nothing in the hell of soul,
Neither any stone of punishment,
Nor any moment of reward.
O! My verse of future,
I have commenced giving you vent
With the words of castigation




A Poem In Between Life and Death


O! Life see,
How we are sitting at your threshold,
Having in hands
A begging-bowl of prudence,
The eyes hold a dream to see
The color of a seasonal rose,
But our lips have clenched unstamped
Complaints since ages.

O! Life,
We are sitting at you threshold,
See just for a while
And whisper to us
which is the night for us
who bear delicate dispositions,
When in the anchal of that night,
The wind will convert our dream
Into the mirror of dream.

Which is the day for the journey
Through the desert of desires
Just to have a touch of yours
We have enkindled in the tent of heart,
The lamps of your ‘Being’,
But no trace of your soft fall of the feet,
Voice, presence and fragrance
We could have had.

See just for a while,
Our souls perches on the brims of our lips,
But only to hear a word of consolation.
O! Life see,
How we are sitting at your threshold,
Having in hands the begging-bowl of prudence.




A Poem in the Operation Theatre

(Attributed to my own wife)


The eyes that I feel
Like delicate colors of the butterflies,
Caressing me get themselves
Vanished across the red moments,
My eyes till now
Are dazed containing obligation
To be awakened,
What tactic the indifferent Time uses
Which goes on
Descending into the abyss of my heart
Like the frozen reality of death.
If I close my eyes, the sight will sink down,
The eyes will sink down whom I feel
Like delicate colors of the butterflies.

O! My God,
Two tender eyes,
like the delicate colors of butterflies,
Might have slept across the red moments,
But the heart might be waking,
The heart in which the ocean of my heart roars,
And the brims of lips where from sprouts
The glow of tactility
Might be sleeping
But the dreams might be in a wakeful state,
I know well,
Her hearing is acquainted
With the rhythm of my pulsation,
But now she might be sinking down,
Down and into bottomless depths of silences,
At the last boundary of exertion, her arms
Laden with roses might have become motionless.

O! My God,
What kind of rustling moments,
Lacerating my heart, cutting their own path,
Are plunging into my heart?

O! My God,
The eyes with the delicate colors of butterflies,
The heart impatient like an ocean,
The arms laden with roses,
The yellow lips quivering in glow of tactility,
Her sense of hearing,
Her petals like semi-dormant body,
Abode them all in the shadow of ‘Ayat-ul-Kursi’,
Taking their utmost care,
For in the world yours,
The devotees and the winners of love are very rare.





O! My Enemy


O! My enemy,
There was no route to reach you,
The wastelands of eyes and heart
In the deep silences,
Scorching sunlight,
And profound exhaustion,
Used to search an ocean for the thirsty heart,
They also inscribed their desires,
On the shade-less walls of whims.

From the dome of negritude of night,
They have picked dreams
From the sleeps attributed to you,
And disclosed nothing to anyone

O! My enemy,
There was no route to reach you,
The darkness had been in my bunch,
And glow-worms in your fist,
So till now
The thirsty heart is in search of an ocean,
And asks your hollow eyes for the route
To sink down in its own wilderness.