By Qasum Faraz (Translated into English by Mujeeb Azad)
The desolate shadow of old Acacia
A pouring evening.
An old man,
Threw me in the postbox
Beneath the desolate shadow
Of an old acacia tree.
Days and nights,
Months and years
Pass.
The wind stand still,
The leaf flower stir not.
No dew falls anymore.
No gun is fired from distance.
Only lightless, weatherworn envelops,
And me—
Waiting for someone to come,
To break the rusted,
Dusted locks.
And deliver us
To the exact addresses,
Stamped on our faces.
The Last Temptation of Christ
In the theatre—
Among a thousand chairs,
I sit alone. The scene does not change,
Nor does the curtain body stir.
I sit on the shore,
At the edge of my vision
A boat forgets its course
And draws near,
And you are there.
It is written on my ID,
I am radical. I am rebellion.
I planted bombs to the towers of galaxies.
Like a child, threw stones,
At army trucks,
At gas pipelines,
And ran.
They say—
I was once with the enemy country.
But,
As far my memory allows,
I sit on the shore,
At the edge of vision
A boat forgets its course,
And you—
You are there.
Who is Next?
Life is a poster
Pasted on the city walls.
With time, the names and faces
On its chest shift;
One day, Allah Nizar.
Another, Abdul Nabi.
This heedless time, this ruthless age,
At every crossing, every square,
The wind shreds my being
Like a pamphlet.
Tomorrow: strikes.
Shutters blink their iron lids shut.
The rally’s cry climbs from dust
To sky.
The days and nights,
Months and years,
They begin to blur,
Each banners bearing
On its bow
Words that open into new oceans.
Who knows what follows?
I, a character
In one of the world’s stories,
Stand aside and wonder,
From whom?
A hand rests on my shoulder.
A voice whispers gently:
Life
Is a poster
Pasted on the city walls.
Thanks for reading this piece. To support our mission and advance your writing career, please consider purchasing our book Becoming A Professional Author.
