Curse

Furrowed motherland,
I swear that in your ashes
you will be born like a flower of eternal water

I swear that from your mouth of thirst
will come to the air the petals of bread,
the spilt inaugurated flower.

Cursed, cursed, cursed be those
who with an ax and serpent came to your earthly arena,
cursed those who waited for this day to open the door of the dwelling
to the moor and the bandit:
What have you achieved?

Bring,
bring the lamp,
see the soaked earth,
see the blackened little bone eaten by the flames,
the garment of murdered Spain.

--- Pablo Neruda from Spain In Our Hearts (1973) translated by Donald D. Walsh

Su Nombre es Hoy (His Name is Today)

We are guilty of many errors and many faults,
but our worst crime is abandoning the children,
neglecting the fountain of life.

Many of the things we need can wait.
The child cannot.
Right now is the time his bones are being formed,
his blood is being made,
and his senses are being developed.

To him we cannot answer ‘Tomorrow,’
his name is today.

---Gabriela Mistral

La Standard Oil Co

When the drill bored down toward the stony fissures
and plunged its implacable intestine
into the subterranean estates,
and dead years, eyes of the ages,
imprisoned plants’ roots
and scaly systems
became strata of water,
fire shot up through the tubes
transformed into cold liquid,
in the customs house of the heights,
issuing from its world of sinister depth,
it encountered a pale engineer
and a title deed.

However entangled the petroleum’s arteries may be,
however the layers may change their silent site
and move their sovereignty amid the earth’s bowels,
when the fountain gushes its paraffin foliage,
Standard Oil arrived beforehand
with its checks and it guns,
with its governments and its prisoners.

Their obese emperors from New York
are suave smiling assassins
who buy silk, nylon, cigars
petty tyrants and dictators.

They buy countries, people, seas, police, county councils,
distant regions where the poor hoard their corn
like misers their gold:
Standard Oil awakens them,
clothes them in uniforms, designates
which brother is the enemy.
the Paraguayan fights its war,
and the Bolivian wastes away
in the jungle with its machine gun.

A President assassinated for a drop of petroleum,
a million-acre mortgage,
a swift execution on a morning mortal with light, petrified,
a new prison camp for subversives,
in Patagonia, a betrayal, scattered shots
beneath a petroliferous moon,
a subtle change of ministers
in the capital, a whisper
like an oil tide,
and zap, you’ll see
how Standard Oil’s letters shine above the clouds,
above the seas, in your home,
illuminating their dominions.

--- by Pablo Neruda, Canto General, 1940 and Translated by Jack Schmitt

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

---Maya Angelou

एक बूँद

ज्यों निकल कर बादलों की गोद से
थी अभी एक बूँद कुछ आगे बढ़ी
सोचने फिर-फिर यही जी में लगी,
आह ! क्यों घर छोड़कर मैं यों बढ़ी ?

देव मेरे भाग्य में क्या है बढ़ा,
मैं बचूँगी या मिलूँगी धूल में ?
या जलूँगी फिर अंगारे पर किसी,
चू पडूँगी या कमल के फूल में ?

बह गयी उस काल एक ऐसी हवा
वह समुन्दर ओर आई अनमनी
एक सुन्दर सीप का मुँह था खुला
वह उसी में जा पड़ी मोती बनी ।

लोग यों ही हैं झिझकते, सोचते
जबकि उनको छोड़ना पड़ता है घर
किन्तु घर का छोड़ना अक्सर उन्हें
बूँद लौं कुछ और ही देता है कर ।

---अयोध्या सिंह उपाध्याय ‘हरिऔध’

कभी मोम बन के पिघल गया

कभी मोम बन के पिघल गया कभी गिरते गिरते सँभल गया
वो बन के लम्हा गुरेज़ का मेरे पास से निकल गया

उसे रोकता भी तो किस तरह के वो शख़्स इतना अजीब था
कभी तड़प उठा मेरी आह से कभी अश्क़ से न पिघल सका

सरे-राह मिला वो अगर कभी तो नज़र चुरा के गुज़र गया
वो उतर गया मेरी आँख से मेरे दिल से क्यूँ न उतर सका

वो चला गया जहाँ छोड़ के मैं वहाँ से फिर न पलट सका
वो सँभल गया था 'फ़राज़' मगर मैं बिखर के न सिमट सका

---अहमद फ़राज़ 

कुछ न किसी से बोलेंगे

कुछ न किसी से बोलेंगे
तन्हाई में रो लेंगे

हम बेरहबरों का क्या
साथ किसी के हो लेंगे

ख़ुद तो हुए रुसवा लेकिन
तेरे भेद न खोलेंगे

जीवन ज़हर भरा साग़र
कब तक अमृत घोलेंगे

नींद तो क्या आयेगी "फ़राज़"
मौत आई तो सो लेंगे

---अहमद फ़राज़