Originally written in Balochi by: Chandan Sach

Translated into English by: Uzair Mehr

 

 

 

1.    The Scream

 

When have we talked like a discerning man?

Life is torn asunder

The threads are broken up along with the pale seasons

Whose dreams we will wear around the neck like amulet

We will head to the sky

the sky has long been segregated from the earth’s situations

Is it the truth?

Is it gleam of a lamp or a whim that communes?

Who will clip the sights of his own solitude’s wings?

The breath of thirsty melodies’ spirit has snared in fingers

A voice swells up from afar

The old boats left voyages with aged sailors

Who will always be proud of Pleiades and constellations?

These factitious entities don’t have satisfactory cycles

Why the lines of a contrite character’s hands are undependable?

If a man was a worthy man, the life would have been strangled in a deep well

Or a shade has been sought after like Nietzsche

A word has been threaded on the wick of a lamp and articulated

In the seasons of lovelessness, it’s rather better if a man accommodates in himself.

 

 

2.    Everything is stranger

 

In the slumberous seasons, to whom I will write a letter?

Neither the wind carries a tale nor the birds pack a philosophy

Neither a door, window, ship or a sail shows up

The eyes are restless

I am in colorful seasons

The night rolls up the articulations of vernal needs

The color of pale scenes’ lips pours

A gospel will prevail that I am in the season of Communications

Neither love nor a lover, what should I think of epochs?

A person is abased for an age

where one should go?

The sea, earth, pasture, the ablaze lamp of shrine

Everything is stranger now

Farewell holy fella

Separate we are till the Judgement Day

 

 

 

3.    The Road of Individuality

 

It’s the long road of individuality, pitch-dark night and me

The hands and ears are stock-still

There’s no sight ahead

Neither a seed of wheat to engross oneself with

Nor a honey to chase and kiss one’s fingers

If only I could see an unreliable dust

I might have fled from myself

And moved ahead

It’s the long road of individuality, pitch-dark night and me

What should a man do in the gloomy times if doesn’t think?

The club and chador would have been taken like deity Johns

And sit in a suntan to talk with oneself

Or would find another door

This is unsatisfactory life

A death would have been asked from the death

The lines of hands have long been widow

Why should I look above?

There is a cosmos beyond this sky

Or a natural diversion searching itself door-to-door

The play is long been over

What should I say?

An orphan smile, a remorseful grievance

For whom should I lament an elegy?

 

 

 

 

 

4.    The Life

 

O’ the old soil of the heart!

 Don’t wail

Don’t stich prayers

The bygone desires will not rejuvenate now

The incomplete life is itself complete

Who can sit in the narrow and dark rooms?

Everyone runs with his own inclination,

In the deed of his misdeed

O’ the old soil of the heart!

Leave these wails

What’s the end of the solitude?

What’s the seriousness of the paleness?

The holy lord of this jungle will give out sweets

Who will imbibe blood?

Orpheus entwines music

We never construed the universe

It’s better if a luckless person hangs himself

Now the offspring of comrade Zeus have passed beyond their eyes

Who will laud for his offspring?

The combusted desires will not be burnt again

What will utter the distant vistas?

The Mars’s life might exalt us from the sky

Is there anyone who knows the meanings of the colors?

Everyone is entrapped in their own matters here

Clueless are east and west

Who exits?

The Caucasian Mountain has been abandoned by brunette fairies

Who exists?

The Phoenix doesn’t eat its eggs

O’ the aged soil of the heart!

 

Now don’t say that I will change my colors when it rains

The doors are soundless

Open up the pale Windows

See the moon, rub the hand on the forehead

Embrace yourself and bite your lips

Get down from inside of the epoch

 

 

 

 

5.    The Suicide

 

A lock has long been put on the door of age

No one should come and go

My people are four keys in me

Every key is guarantor of itself

The thirst thinks of spring

The winter tale is on embers

The vernal dreams go along with the spring

As lightnings flash far away in summers

There’s a list of reminiscences

How have been the journeys

How has passed the life

How the melodies of my youth have broken

The plays kept moving on

But I was defeated from myself beforehand

What should I tell you now?

The rebellious desires couldn’t travel ahead

I dropped the arms in front of me

A grave, person, and green amulet have been tied up to an epoch

The death is conspicuous as if the life is a ruddy pomegranate

Ah, what should I tell you?

The ways have changed

And turned to places

If the spiders’ webs woven inside merge themselves, then they should do

The fire should prostrate the fervid intention

The time should return along with the thoughts

The meanings of ups and downs should also change

I will not come for you…. I will not come for you

I have been vitiated with my dreams far away 

 

 

 

6.    The Problem

 

 Oh, kind soul, it is a strange caprice

I contemplate and immerse into a thought

She is younger than me in fourteen months

And she will die after sixteen years of my departure

 

 

 

 

7.    The Supplication

 

The panoramas of the world are so afflicted today

Don’t combust incenses in shrines

The shade of this Neem Tree might stretch itself

And recalls the ungratified disposition of the bygone epoch

My kind lord is the God of gawkish lords

Don’t be so heartsick, the acquainted dreams need canopy

The fervent goblet of your widowhood might allay

Shatter the hazy image of the mirror

Don’t be melancholic outside yourself

That the portrait of my desire’s waves incinerates

I will not be potently gratified with myself at any cost

You know that…

I am the one who is submerged in the sea of his bygone memories

How can I look for the pale lamps of the thirst?

I pondered in heart many times in solitude and loneliness

I will seek a new world for me

I didn’t aggress and speculated again

It’s a spring of ephemeral days and doesn’t worth for me

 

 

 

 

 

8.    The Sky

 

I have been traveling and entered in such an epoch

There are a thousand seasons of me, a thousand seasons

In the season of these seasons,

I relinquished many dreams and closed up the eyes

I was mum and didn’t think to myself

In an anguished era of travelers, the dreams would be set afire

And will be gloomy like an aged bird

Seeing the sky, a season of separations stems

This sky has seen the corpses of many tales

Sometimes this sky was entangled with itself like an old lady

Where I have reached

Why this thirst doesn’t quench

Sometimes this sky like a chevalier with sword and shield

With a black horse,

Went to an unknown war

This sky is a jungle of beings

An unestablished gospel

This sky is a tumult

But there are a thousand tales inside these tumultuous scenes

The life of these tales

Calls me like an old jinni

And passes like a flash and vanishes

 

 

 

9.    O’ Life!

 

Oh life, I am an inhabiting traveler of Stories land

I am stranger from the aged vistas of the sky

I travelled in the seasons of death and life

Neither I have a color

Nor consciousness, dream and life

I never saw red and green pigeons in prostration

I deplumed the color of strangeness from the wings of butterflies

I never thought that I treasured lamps

I never saw sky at night that my eyes would turn blind

I was afraid of sea that

I never went toward the old boats

For I will be lost

I was gloomy at evenings for a person

I don’t know she was a person of how many seasons

It is the tale of bypast seasons

An era elapsed noiselessly

Now my heart says

To distort this story and live life

Go to sea and get on aged boats

And blend into blood like water

And feign yourself like black and red posters

Watch the unknown people of era at a windowsill who appear to be like a foregone era

 

 

 

 

 

10.   The World

 

I saw a dream,

So, there was a wall and it was written on it

Everything ends here

I saw a dream

The wick of my fantasy’s spirit lamp shrank

I smiled

I got up

I am alone

There’s no one in my room

 



Reference:

 

 Azmaan Kaaristhe E Log Ent [The Sky Is the Abode of a Character]

(Balochi poetry book which was written by Chandan Sach and published by Ilm O Adab Publisher Urdu Bazar, Karachi on March 2019.)

 

 

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