Poems by Ayub Khawar / Traslation by Muhammad Shanazar

Poems by Ayub Khawar


A Frozen Moment of Farewell

As soon as I opened the door,
What I beheld,
Everything in the room lay
As when and where it was,
On corner of the dressing table,
The lid of safety pin-box was lying
As it was before,
In the spines of hair-brush were entangled
Some strands of hair,
The vial of scent was lidless,
And inside the purse
Our combined photo was lying prostrate on it,
A pair of my sandals was lying,
Prostrate too behind the door of balcony,
My watch and your bracelet,
Fell flat from underneath the cushion,
On the sitter made of cane,
A piece of your green anchal hung
On the hook of my belt,
The bed-sheet and cushions muddled
With one another sinking into
The desert of deep sleep.

Before departure,
The spectacle you froze,
While opening the door I included myself.
Would that you make your sudden sojourn,
To resonate the suspended chords,
So that the frozen spectacle,

At least should breathe.


I Have To Do Yet A Lot of Chores

Someone plucked out my lashes,
And twisted them into a cord,
Then fastened my dreams,
With the same cord,
And imprisoned,
Into the dark cell of my own torso.

Nothing is perceptible in blackness,
But a glow resembling a drop of blood,
In the twinkle of which these dreams
Like grim shadows cling to arcs of my chest,
And wait for to get released.

But I have to do yet a lot of chores,
I don’t have time to see my own eyes sans lashes,
The world spreads all around me,
There are thousands of chores I have to perform,
But I am alone.

I stand stunned
For moments of life are slipping away
From my fist just as sand slips grain by grain,
Hands are becoming empty.

I have to do yet a lot of chores,
Like an old shepherd,
I have to yet lead the flock of this eve
To the farm of yellow morn,
I have to see lest a petty star from my flock
Should vanish into the dust of
Blind journey, stretched to the skies.

I have to do yet a lot of chores,
I have to get released feet of my fellow beings
From the grip of shoes made of mud,
I have to harvest yet the crop of thirst
Sown in throats of the people of bygone seasons,
And clad with the dress of roses
Some brunette beings.
O! My imprisoned dreams,
I have no time to get you released
For I have to do yet a lot of chores.

Poet…… Ayub Khawar


Translation by Muhammad Shanazar


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