Ahmed Faraz's ‘Mohasera’ Translated
By Rizwana Rahim
Chicago, IL
My enemy sends me a message --
his forces now surround me
from the city's ramparts
from every dome, every minaret
his army, ready to fire.
The wave of lightning
that used to liven up the very dust
has now been extinguished,
gun powder now spread
in the water that
used to flow on to my lane.
The dissenters were physically broken
the rebels, hanged
the sufis and the worldly-wise,
the Sheikhs and the Imams
hoping for alms
are now in the unkind palaces
keepers of justice waiting to take oath
are sitting in the way
like unrelenting beggars.
You were the champion of the intelligentsia
stars of that universe are before us
and eager for a hint from palace officers
a crowd of literary beggars are before us
look at the loyalists' reason
look around, see who's with you.
The condition is this: if you want to
keep your life save, keep your
pen and paper in the gallows,
or else you are now the target,
you're alone,
with your respect, your reputation
at risk in the street.
When he saw the list of conditions,
he said to the mediator:
He doesn't know what history teaches us.
When the Night kills the Sun
the Morning brings out
a new-born Sun --
this is my reply to my enemy.
I don't need his favors,
nor am I afraid of his retaliations.
He takes great pride in the sword's power,
but has no idea of the pen's strength.
My pen doesn't represent that guardian
Who gloats over putting his city
under confinement.
My pen is not a vessel of
a vile person who
showers his praise on the thieves.
My pen is not a tool of the burglar
who claiming to love his house
cracks its own walls.
My pen is not a friend of
the midnight prowler
who invades unlit houses.
My pen is not the rosary beads of
a preacher who keeps track of
piety of everyone else.
My pen is not the scales of justice
of one whose face is hidden behind
a couple of masks.
My pen is the treasure of my people
I am entrusted with --
My Pen is my conscience's court of justice,
Which is why, I write what I write
with the passion of my life;
that's why what I write is nimble as a bow ,
its tongue, an arrow.
If I'm cut down or safe, I do believe
someone will end this oppressive prison.
I swear on the good fortune of my entire life:
What I write will not go in vain.
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