A milk-white scarf plays on the bosom of

the young night like an ivory dream.

Pretty flowers, pretty petals, pretty
branches--twist and turn like a young
girl's body.
The soft tones of the horizon seem to
have melted into the evening. The land
is beautiful, like a land of dreams.
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
Those trees under which we used to hide
still stand today like silent trust-bearers.
In the shade of these same trees, again,
two beating hearts have come to say
something, to hear something with silent
lips.
Who knows the deliberation, the struggle
with which they have stolen these
twilight moments.
It was this same night, this same season,
this same time.
Here it was that our love began.
With beating hearts, with trembling gaze
we had put our tiny petition in the
presence of the Unseen Lord-that these unopened buds of longing
bloom into flowers; that the prayers of
our heart and our gaze be accepted.
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
You are coming, hiding from the gaze of
the world; with lowered gaze, stealing
your own body, ashamed even at the
sound of your own footsteps, fearing,
afraid even of the movement of your
own shadow.
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
A small canoe headed out in the
direction of the breeze; the boatman
sings his song in tune with the stream;
your body sways into my open arms with
every nudge of the waves in the
stream ...
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes

as certainty...
I pin flower patterns into the bun of your
hair,
your eyes half-close with happiness
who knows what I am about to say today
my mouth is dry, my voice a stammer.
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
your soft arms are around my neck
the shadows of my lips remain on your
lips
I am certain now we will never be
;parted
you think that even joined we are
strangers
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
With winsome humility and favor, you
pick up my books strewn on my bed--you
quietly hum songs that are sung on the
first night.
Shadows surface in imagination-sometimes as expectation, sometimes
as certainty...
How pretty were those moments, how
lovely those hours.
How delicate were those garlands, how
lovely those petals.
It was as if each green alley of the
village were an island of dreams
The wave of each breath, the blowing of
each morning breeze was a treasure of
songs.
Suddenly, from fields dancing with crops,
;the sound of boots started coming
Winds from the West came carrying the
heavy smell of gunpowder
the clouds of destruction started
appearing on the shining face of
construction
Wildness danced in each village, the
jungle spread in each city
Some Khaki-dressed people came from
the civilized countries of the West
The bruises of boots started appearing
on the butter-soft alleyways
The sound of military bands started
drowning out the music of weaving

spindles
The long dresses of flowers were
drowned in the smoldering dust of jeeps
The price of human beings started to fall,
the price of food started to rise
The village meeting place became
empty, the recruitment office became
crowded
The handsome bold young men started
leaving as soldiers,
heading out on that road from which few
return.
Care for one's own left in these
departing units, respectability also left.
The young sons of mothers left, the
beloved brothers of sisters also left.
Sadness settled on the village, the bloom
of the village fairs faded,
The rows of swings hanging from
branches of mango trees were finished.
Dust rose in the market-places, hunger
started rised in the village paths
Goods left the stores to hide in the
cellars.
The poverty of the houses of the poor
grew to entangle them;
prices rose and turn into webs of
problems, the whole village became
paupers.
Shephardesses forgot their paths, the
village girls stopped coming to the
drawing wells.
So many unmarried girls left their
parents doorsteps...
The poverty-struck farmer had to sell his
plough and buffalo, he had to sell his
granary
He had to sell all the means of his living
to his desire to remain alive.
When there was nothing left to sell, they
started the business of selling bodies.
People made bold to do such things in
public, things that had been forbidden in
private
Shadows surface in imagination...
You are coming with your hair spread out
in public
Bearing the weight of a thousand
accusations

Hiding the embarrassed nakedness of

your body
from the bold advances of the gazes of
slaves of lust
Shadows surface in imagination...
I have gone to the city to look behind
each door
I could not find a price for my labor
anywhere
I could not find a price in any of the
political gambling houses of the tyrants
for the wisdom of those whose destiny is
pain
Shadows surface in imagination...
There is a clamor of Armageddon in your
house
The couriers have brought a telegram
from the battle-field
that he whose name was more beloved
to you than your own life
that brother has fallen to the enemy
Shadows surface in imagination...
Humiliation crowds every foot step
There are fairs of disgrace at every turn
There is neither friendship, nor formality,
nor sympathy, nor purity
Nobody belongs to anyone, everyone is
all alone
Shadows surface in imagination...
That village path that is deserted like my
heart
who knows where that path is going to
take you
The murderers of conscience are buying
you
The horizon is red with the blood of
hopes
Shadows surface in imagination...
I still remember that afternoon: stained
with the blood of the sun.
I still remember the conclusion of those
golden dreams of love
That evening I found out that in this
world, like farms
they even sell the smile of frightened
girls
That evening I found out that in this
workplace of goldsmiths
they even sell the familiarity of two

innocent souls
That evening I found out, when the
father's farm is snatched from him
The priceless token of the golden dreams
of motherhood can be sold
That evening I found out that when the
brother dies in battle
the sister's youth is sold in the coffeehouses of capital.
I still remember that afternoon: stained
with the blood of the sun.
I still remember the conclusion of those
golden dreams of love
Today you are thousands of miles away
somewhere, alone
or in the middle of a pleasure party
you knit dreams of me; sitting in
someone else's arms
And I, carrying sorrow in my heart, labor
day and night
I die in order to remain alive
I debase my art to fill the laps of
strangers
I have no choice, you have no choice, no
one in this world has any choice.
The pain of the body weighs on the heart
The price of living in this age is either
the gallows or shame.
I could not dare to take to the gallows,
you could not get up to the door of
struggle:
You wanted to but could not.
We are two souls that could not reach
the destination of fulfillment.
As for living, I continue to live. My breath
burns with the cremated corpses of
desires,
my breath burns with quiet faithfulness.
My dreams burn as covers in these
somber houses of reality.
And today, two shadows are swaying
under these trees.
Again, two hearts have come to meet.
Again, the storm of death has risen, the
clouds of war overshadow us.
I fear that these two not end up like us.
Their passion not be put to shame.
That they not find a blood-stained
evening in their destiny.

I still remember that afternoon: stained

with the blood of the sun.
I still remember the conclusion of those
golden dreams of love
Our love could not survive accidents of
time.
But let these two find their night of
fulfillment.
We could only find the struggle of death
without peace
Let them find a swaying singing life.
Long has politics made it its job
that when children become youths they
should be killed.
Long have rulers been ruled by this
madness:
that famine be sown in distant countries.
Long have the dreams of youth been
deserted.
Long has love been fleeing for shelter.
Long has the innocence of the beauty of
life sought shelter in these roads that
witness cruelty.
Come, let us ask all these downtrodden
souls to let every wound speak
Our secret is not ours, it belongs to
everyone
Let us share our secret with the whole
world.
Come, let us say to these gamblers of
politics,
that we hate this stride of wars and
conflict.
We hate that style of life that likes
nothing but the color of blood
Say: If any murderer comes this way now
the world will become straitened for him
at every step
Each wave of the wind will turn to attack
each branch will turn into a vein of rock
Get up to say to each warmonger
We need our tomorrows for work
We don't want to snatch away anyone's
land
We need ploughs for our own land
Say that no entrepreneur should head
this way
No virgin is going to be sold here now.
These fields wake up, these harvests

stand up
No small garden will be sold here now.
This is the land of the Buddha and of
Nanak.
No barbarians will ever walk this land
Our blood is a trust of the new
generation.
No army will be raised on our blood.
Speak, because if even today we remain
silent
then let this world beware
of the atomic horrors that madness has
!molded
Let the earth beware! Let the sky
!beware
Houses were burned in the last war but
this time
even these lonelinesses might burn up.
In the last war bodies were burnt but this
time
even these shadows might burn up.
Shadows surface in imagination...
Sahir Ludhianwi