Poems by Ayub Khawar
A Night In Grief
Nothing is there,
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,
There should descend
Some divine messages,
From the blue plate of moon,
But in the silence of the wild night
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 purgatory 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
The Heart Of Dream Be Revealed
Let the heart of dream be revealed,
Just as drunkenness reveals upon
The quivering lashes of the eyes sunken in love,
As in the shut books,
Possibility of a rose to bloom reveals,
As to the finger-tips, reveals taste
Of the virgin touch of love.
Let the heart of dream be revealed,
So that I could see
The drunkenness of the unrevealed puberty,
The same bewilderment which I wished
To string just for once on the thread of breath,
The same indecision
To which the innocent half opened eyes
Bequeathed a trust,
And fragrance of rose and jasmine.
The core of heart imprinted,
Sans voice and sans word,
The feel of imperceptible smile
On your throbbing rosy lips;
Then to my eyes you awakened like dawn.
O! The beauty with speaking eyes
You are the soul of poesy,
Time penned several episodes
Of the bygone age,
And the threshold of each chapter is stunned
Like a sealed dream,
There is neither any knock,
Nor any sound,
Nor any breezy word,
Nor any prudence.
Would that before this moment passes,
The heart of this sealed dream should open!
And I may see what the allusion was
Of the tale of your imperceptible smile,
Being the sinner of love
What compensation for the injury
I shall have to recompense.
Ya Hussain, The Son Of Ali
(On the terrorist attack in the procession of 10th of Moharrram in Kararchi a couple of years back)
Son of Ali,
When will this perpetual Karbala come to an end?
From the maddening, trembling particles of sand
And the mounts of dune,
The essence of blood still lingers.
Slaughtered heads entangled
In the worn out branches,
The wind avoiding the cries of Karbala,
Hushes itself in the bushes,
In our times,
Son of Ziad and offspring of Shimr
Cannot hide themselves,
They wear suicide jackets
In trade of heaven and heavenly beauties,
Have pulled out the reminiscence of Karbala.
In this journey to fifteenth Century Hijri*,
These Kufi and Kharaji,
Enemies of progenies of Abraham
Have become blood thirsty of every man
Whose heart beats in equilibrium,
With life and after life.
Every soul is at stake,
Which wants to live in the existing world,
With the desire of freedom.
These strange Barbarians, Mad heartless and Murderers
Always die before they kill innocent infants,
Young and old men and women,
With pieces of iron wrapped around them
They take a leap to hell themselves,
Turn roads, streets, squares, bazars,
Places of worship into abattoirs.
Although we haven’t seen burning camps,
With our own eyes,
But whatever is etched in the mirror of history,
The eve of Karbala,
That was filled with voiceless cries
Of colleens and infants,
Whose sorrow retains,
Even when tears are shed,
In the deepest core of our bosom,
Years have passed,
And that fire still burns our soul,
Just as it did,
The night Karbala weighed upon us.
Spread over centuries,
When this prolonged Karbala will end?
When will Hussainiat extinguish
The blaze of Yazeediat.
*Hijri: The Hijri year is the year-numbering system used in the Islamic calendar.