Homeless
———
The fruit of migration
is not our fate
parting from the land,
we are homeless
And have no place.
That sea
Where we are drowned
Is not ours.
Immanent in its name,
Now there is not a
panorama that is ours.
How long can we bear
the gifts of strangers
And bear our own heads?
No stone is ours
Sitting on the edge of
the lane of gypsyhood
No walk is ours,
no door is ours.
A flock of birds heralds
the falls of evening
As a thought crosses,
this is no home of ours.
All The Colours Of Love
———————–
Come
Scatter all the colours
of love on this land
come
look from the eyes of
the heart
as this land
in its love filled fingers,
holds an olive branch
moves towards us
the kind metaphor of the
olive branch
waits for us
so we may on this
new land
scatter all the colours
of love.
-Ashfaq Hussain
-translated from Urdu by Shehla Burney