The Nobodies / Los nadies

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog,
and nobodies dream of escaping from poverty,
that one magical day
good luck will soon rain,
that good luck will pour down,
but good luck doesn't rain, neither yesterday
nor today,nor tomorrow, nor ever,
nor does good fall from the sky in little mild showers,
however much the nobodies call for it,
even if their left hands itch
or they get up using their right feet,
or they change their brooms at new year.

The nobodies: the children of nobody, that masters of nothing,
The nobodies: the nothings, those made nothing,
running after the hare, dying life, fucked, totally fucked:

who are not, although they were.
Who speak no languages, only dialects.
Who have no religions, only superstitions.
Who have have no arts, only crafts.
Who have no culture, only folklore.
Who are not human beings, but human resources.
Who have faces, only arms.
Who don't have names, only numbers.
Who don't count in world history,
just in the local press's stories of violence, crime, misfortune and disaster,.

The nobodies who are worth less than the bullets that kill them.

--- Eduardo Galeano

Dust

It’s my turn at the water point:
The trickle is slower today
Each day, slower,
One day, it may stop;
And my field has withered,
Rusted-dry in the staring sun,
The crevices filling with dust.
Tin buckets clash behind me
And a loud voice roughly bawls
“Don’t fill that bucket full!
Fool – don’t you know you’ll slop?”
I withdraw, abashed. It’s true:
I mustn’t spill a precious drop
Not even as a libation
To the gloating sun.

I saw a young man gunned down
As I shopped in the market place.
Two thick thuds, and then he fell,
And thrashed a bit, on his face.
That’s all. He sprawled in the staring sun.
(They whirled away in a cloud of dust
In a smart white van.)
His blood laid the dust
In a scarlet little shower,
Scarlet little flowers.
In the staring sun, the little flowers
Will burn and turn to rust.

I stumble home through arid fields
My furtive footsteps hushed by dust.
I scan the sky – hard, limpid, deep –
O pure and high is heaven’s sky!
Is there no shade for me? I weep
To hide from the glaring eye of heaven.
(Cain, my brother Cain!
I know your fear, your guilt, your pain –
I too have now a brother slain,
I too am sealed with the scarlet stain!)
My ink has crusted in my pen
And in my heart – the dust.

---Nini Lungalang

सड़क पर किसान

 "जिनकी जेबें भरने के लिए 

किसानों का पेट तुम काट रहे 

सब जानते हैं छुप-छुप कर 

किस-किसके तलवे चाट रहे 

क्यों तुमसे न वह आज लड़ेगा 

मूर्तियाँ गिराते-गिराते 

गिर गए हैं जो अपने भीतर 

हुजूम किसानों का फिर से उन्हें 

सवालों के चौराहे पर खड़ा करेगा।"

—जसिंता केरकेट्टा

Poem of Love (Poema de Amor)

They who widened the Panama Canal
(and were classified “silver roll” and “gold roll”),
they who repaired the Pacific fleet at California bases,
they who rotted in the jails of Guatemala,
Mexico, Honduras, Nicaragua *
for being thieves, smugglers, swindlers, for being hungry,
they always suspicious of everything
(“permit me to haul you in as a suspect
for hanging out on corners suspiciously, and furthermore
with the pretentious air of being Salvadorian”),
they who packed the bars and brothels of all the ports
and capitals of the region
(“The Blue Cave,” “Hot Pants,” “Happyland”),
the planters of corn deep in foreign jungles,
the kings of cheap porn,
they who no one knows where they come from,
the best artisans of the world,
they who were stitched by bullets crossing the border,
they who died of malaria
or by the sting of scorpions or yellow fever
in the hell of banana plantations,
the drunkards who cried for the national anthem
under a cyclone of the Pacific or northern snows,
the moochers, the beggars, the dope pushers,
guanaco sons of bitches,
they who hardly made it back,
they who had a little more luck,
the eternally undocumented,
the jack-of-all trades, the hustlers, the gluts,
the first the flash a knife,
the sad, the saddest of all,
my people, my brothers.

---Roque Dalton

*Somoza’s era in Nicaragua.
Translated from the Spanish by Zoë Anglesey and Daniel Flores Ascencio.

उनको प्रणाम

जो नहीं हो सके पूर्ण–काम
मैं उनको करता हूँ प्रणाम ।

कुछ कंठित औ' कुछ लक्ष्य–भ्रष्ट
जिनके अभिमंत्रित तीर हुए;
रण की समाप्ति के पहले ही
जो वीर रिक्त तूणीर हुए !
उनको प्रणाम !

जो छोटी–सी नैया लेकर
उतरे करने को उदधि–पार;
मन की मन में ही रही¸ स्वयं
हो गए उसी में निराकार !
उनको प्रणाम !

जो उच्च शिखर की ओर बढ़े
रह–रह नव–नव उत्साह भरे;
पर कुछ ने ले ली हिम–समाधि
कुछ असफल ही नीचे उतरे !
उनको प्रणाम !

एकाकी और अकिंचन हो
जो भू–परिक्रमा को निकले;
हो गए पंगु, प्रति–पद जिनके
इतने अदृष्ट के दाव चले !
उनको प्रणाम !

कृत–कृत नहीं जो हो पाए;
प्रत्युत फाँसी पर गए झूल
कुछ ही दिन बीते हैं¸ फिर भी
यह दुनिया जिनको गई भूल !
उनको प्रणाम !

थी उम्र साधना, पर जिनका
जीवन नाटक दु:खांत हुआ;
या जन्म–काल में सिंह लग्न
पर कुसमय ही देहांत हुआ !
उनको प्रणाम !

दृढ़ व्रत औ' दुर्दम साहस के
जो उदाहरण थे मूर्ति–मंत ?
पर निरवधि बंदी जीवन ने
जिनकी धुन का कर दिया अंत !
उनको प्रणाम !

जिनकी सेवाएँ अतुलनीय
पर विज्ञापन से रहे दूर
प्रतिकूल परिस्थिति ने जिनके
कर दिए मनोरथ चूर–चूर !
उनको प्रणाम !

---नागार्जुन

जूता

तारकोल और बजरी से सना
सड़क पर पड़ा है
एक ऐंठा, दुमड़ा, बेडौल
जूता।

मैं उन पैरों के बारे में
सोचता हूँ
जिनकी इसने रक्षा की है
और
श्रद्धा से नत हो जाता हूँ।

~सर्वेश्वरदयाल सक्सेना

The Warrior's Resting Place

The dead are getting more restless each day.

They used to be easy
we’d put on stiff collars flowers
praised their names on long lists
shrines of the homeland
remarkable shadows
monstrous marble.

The corpses signed away for posterity
returned to formation
and marched to the beat of our old music.

But not anymore
the dead
have changed.

They get all ironic
they ask questions.

It seems to me they’ve started to realise
they’re becoming the majority!

--- Roque Dalton