The dawns you are in will rise again

The dawns you are in will rise again
The dawns you are in will rise again
The dawns you are in will rise again,
Filling my arms with you,
Putting dew on the lashes
Of the crescent that has gone not giving up.

Will stretch the roads wide,
To the bottom of your doorsteps.
Will bring your longing,
The dove cooing at your window.
Perfume of the branches,
Will drizzle to my imagination.

Yearning to you as clear as moonlight,
Passed my door a thousand times.
Spreading out their leaves,
Lies the dreams like red flowers.

Like your lip kissing my burning lip,
The dawns you are in will rise again.

--- Gulnisa Emin
Translated by RFA’s Uyghur Service. Written in English by Roseanne Gerin.

माँ

माँ
पालती है
पेड़ एक
लाड़ से
प्यार से
दुलार से।
माँ सुलाती है
लोरी गा
पिलाती है दूध
लुटाती है
तन मन प्राण
पेड़
होता बड़ा ज्यों-ज्यों
जड़ें
उसकी मजबूत
घुस जाती हैं
माँ में
हाथ पैर में
दिमाग में
और दिल में
चूसता है
ख़ून-पानी-माँस
महँगे आँसू
पेड़ पाता
विस्तार अद्भुत
देखता संसार
रूककर राह में
कितना बड़ा है पेड़
कितना लम्बा है पेड़
पेड़ बढ़ता
निस दिन
माँ से धँसी
जड़ों से
दूर होता
निस दिन!

---कुमार विश्वास

How They Killed My Grandmother

How did they kill my grandmother?
This is how they killed my grandmother:
In the morning a tank
Rolled up to the city bank.

One hundred and fifty Jews of the town.
Weightless
from a whole year's starvation.
Pale,
with the pangs of death upon them.
Came there, carrying bundles.
Polizei and young German soldiers
Cheerfully herded the old men and old women,
And led them, clanking with pots and pans.
Led them
far out of town.

But my diminutive grandmother, Lilliputian,
My seventy-year-old grandmother,
Swore at the Germans,
Cursed like a trooper,

Yelled at them where I was.
She cried: “My grandson's at the front.
Just you dare Lay hands on me.
Those are our guns
that you hear, Bochel!”

Grandmother wept and shouted
And walked.
And then started
Shouting again.
From every window rose a din.
Ivanovs and Andreyevnas leant down,
Sidorovnas and Petrovnas wept:

“Keep it up, Polina Matveyevna!
You just show them. Give it them straight!”
They clamoured:
“What's there to be so scared
About this German enemy!”
And so they decided to kill my grandmother,
While they were still passing through the town.

A bullet kicked up her hair.
A grey lock floated down.
And my grandmother fell to the ground.
That's how they did it to her.

--- Boris Slutsky
(Translated by Daniel Weissbort)

अपने चेहरे से जो ज़ाहिर है छुपाएँ कैसे

अपने चेहरे से जो ज़ाहिर है छुपाएँ कैसे
तेरी मर्ज़ी के मुताबिक़ नज़र आएँ कैसे

घर सजाने का तसव्वुर तो बहुत ब'अद का है
पहले ये तय हो कि इस घर को बचाएँ कैसे

लाख तलवारें बढ़ी आती हों गर्दन की तरफ़
सर झुकाना नहीं आता तो झुकाएँ कैसे

क़हक़हा आँख का बरताव बदल देता है
हँसने वाले तुझे आँसू नज़र आएँ कैसे

फूल से रंग जुदा होना कोई खेल नहीं
अपनी मिट्टी को कहीं छोड़ के जाएँ कैसे

कोई अपनी ही नज़र से तो हमें देखेगा
एक क़तरे को समुंदर नज़र आएँ कैसे

जिस ने दानिस्ता किया हो नज़र-अंदाज़ 'वसीम'
उस को कुछ याद दिलाएँ तो दिलाएँ कैसे

--- वसीम बरेलवी

सीने में जलन आँखों में तूफ़ान सा क्यूँ है

सीने में जलन आँखों में तूफ़ान सा क्यूँ है
इस शहर में हर शख़्स परेशान सा क्यूँ है

दिल है तो धड़कने का बहाना कोई ढूँडे
पत्थर की तरह बे-हिस ओ बे-जान सा क्यूँ है

तन्हाई की ये कौन सी मंज़िल है रफ़ीक़ो
ता-हद्द-ए-नज़र एक बयाबान सा क्यूँ है

हम ने तो कोई बात निकाली नहीं ग़म की
वो ज़ूद-पशेमान पशेमान सा क्यूँ है

क्या कोई नई बात नज़र आती है हम में
आईना हमें देख के हैरान सा क्यूँ है

--- अख़लाक़ मुहम्मद ख़ान 'शहरयार'

We Love What We Have

We love what we have, no matter how little,
because if we don’t, everything will be gone. If we don’t
we will no longer exist, since there will be nothing here for us.
What’s here is something that we are still
building. It’s something we cannot yet see,
because we are part
of it.
Someday soon, this building will stand on its own, while we,
we will be the trees that protect it from the fierce
wind, the trees that will give shade
to children sleeping inside or playing on swings.

--- Mosab Abu Toha

MORḠ-E SAḤAR (Dawn bird),

Morḡ-e saḥar, nāla sar kon!
dāḡ-e marā tāzatar kon
z-āh-e šararbār in qafas-rā
baršekan o zir o zabar kon
bolbol-e par-basta ze konj-e qafas dar-ā
naḡma-ye āzādi-e nawʿ-e bašar sarā
w-az nafas-i ʿarṣa-ye in ḵāk-e tuda-rā
por šarar kon, por šarar kon
ẓolm-e ẓālem, jawr-e ṣayyād
āšiān-am dāda bar bād
ey ḵodā, ey falak, ey ṭabiʿat
šām-e tārik-e mā-rā saḥar kon
nowbahār ast, gol ba bār ast
abr-e časm-am žala-bār ast
in qafas čun del-am tang o tār ast
šoʿla fekan dar qafas ey āh-e ātašin
dast-e tabiʿat, gol-e ʿomr-e marā mačin
jāneb-e ʿāšeq negar ey tāza gol---az in
bištar kon, bištar kon, bištar kon
morḡ-e bidel, šarḥ-e hejrān
moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar, moḵtaṣar kon

ʿomr-e ḥaqiqat ba-sar šod
ʿaḥd o wafā pey-separ šod
nala-ye ʿāšeq, nāz-e maʿšuq
har do doruḡ o bi-aṯar šod
rāsti o mehr o moḥabbat fasāna šod
qawl o šarāfat hamagi az miāna šod
az pey-e dozdi, waṭan o din bahāna šod, dida tar šod
ẓolm-e malek, jawr-e arbāb
zāreʿ az ḡam gašta bitāb
sāḡar-e aḡniā por mey-e nāb
jamʿ-e mā por ze ḵun-e jegar šod
ey del-e tang nāla sar kon
az qawi-dastān ḥaẕar kon
az mosāwāt ṣarf-e-naẓar kon
sāqi-e gol-čehra, bedeh āb-e ātašin
parda-ye delkaš bezan, ey yār-e delnešin
nāla bar-ār az qafas ey bolbol-e ḥazin
k-az ḡam-e to sina-ye man
por šarar, por šarar, por šarar šod.

Dawn bird, lament!
Make my brand burn even more.
With the sparks from your sigh, break
And turn this cage upside down.
Wing-tied nightingale come out of the corner of your cage, and
Sing the song of freedom for human kind.
With your fiery breath ignite,
The breath of this peopled land.
The cruelty of the cruel and the tyranny of the hunter
Have blown away my nest.
O God, O Heavens, O Nature,
Turn our dark night to dawn.
It’s a new spring, roses are in bloom
Dew drops are falling from my cloudy eyes
This cage, like my heart, is narrow and dark.
O fiery sigh set alight this cage
O fate, do not pick the flower of my life.
O rose, look towards this lover,
Look again, again, again.

O heart-lost bird, shorten, shorten, shorten,
The tale of separation.

Truth’s life has come to an end
Faith and fidelity have been replaced by the shield of war.
Lover’s lament and beloved’s coyness,
Are but lies and have no power.
Truth, love and affection are but myths
Oath and honour are but vanished.
For thieving, country and religion are pretexts, eyes are wet
Landlord’s cruelty, master’s tyranny,
The farmer’s restless from sorrow.
The cup of the rich is full of pure wine,
Our cup is filled with our heart’s blood.
O anxious heart, cry out aloud
And avoid those who have powerful hands,

Count not on justice.
O rosy-cheeked cup-bearer, give the fiery water,
Play a joyful tune, O charming friend.
O sad nightingale lament from your cage.
Because of your grief my heart is
Full of sparks, sparks, sparks.

--- Moḥammad-Taqi Bahār