Poems: The Vitreous Worship of Life
Originally
Written in Balochi by: Muneer Momen
Translated
into English by: Uzair Mehr
Where there
doesn’t grow any grass of voice,
Life will
become a vitreous worship
Sometimes
when your imagination evades me from myself
So, I see
myself from afar
Suddenly I
see our city has slept in the prostration
Neither the
era can enter
Nor can we exit
There’s no
one
Me…
Thee…
And the
vitreous worship of life,
which is
streaming in the veins of city like a canal
2. The Problem
It is not the matter that we are far away from each other,
The problem is that we are so close to the life
And so close even a feeble enemy could kill a person.
3. The Memory
I always miss you
But today…
My melancholy has failed searching words for itself
There are no words…
And I am missing you like a cocooning dove sitting on the
gravestone
And the twilight day descends the sea looking at it.
I am missing you like that today.
4. The Famine
Nothing happened except the sky is not clouding these days,
And the chirrups of birds are thirsty.
Nothing happened.
No one is outside of their abode.
Trees are standing in the same place.
The faith of my pain is still so much lofty that
It can be seen beyond the walls of the entire city.
Your beauty is still in its place as well,
That the moon sights it like a desirous hubby.
No one is dwelling
outside of their abode.
When you come in memory,
My eyes start looking above,
And in the very moment,
Some thirsty melodies reach in my hearing,
And I realize that nothing happened after your departure
except,
That you are not here and the sky is
not clouding.
5. The Season of
Epoch
The gloomy season of my epoch is a misshapen progeny of evil,
Which it has forgotten in these streets.
Wherever you go, or return, this progeny impedes your way.
It has devoured butterflies and frightened doves.
Is there anybody who can curb it and banish it from the city?
So that I can lay flowers for the butterflies and grains for
the doves in every quadrivial of the city.
6. The Life Has
No Abode
My dream broke at the time of gloaming
When I saw an old man took off his turban and, put it beside
playing with the blisters of his feet,
he turned to me and said that
scrimpy hope or blunt arm are both foes of his owner.
When you have set your feet in this path,
blister will be your entire core.
The mountain of grudge would turn into a gritty slope
The stone of gallbladder fades and transudes.
If you don’t ask yet I will tell you
the life is homeless.
Locomote the paths and stray people.
When the
birds started extolment,
When the
stars rolled up the prayer mats,
The night on
my valorous town,
Walked with
its tender paces.
Kept waking
up the hungry monodies
A few aged
women of the town,
Cast away
the dreams in the hole of querns.
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