Legacy Poem


Urdu Poem and English Translation by Qaisar Abbas

My ancestors,
with their memories,
dreams, journeys
and enchanting tales
adorn my walls at home.

Yet I come from another era,
where dreams are shattered
than conceived,
where promises are broken
than kept,
where people live and breathe
in their own sagas
of long gone fantasies.

I come from a village
whose inhabitants
robbed by their lords,
every now and then,
harvest a handful of withering hopes.
Looking back,
I see half-a-century behind me,
and a lost generation,
who even witnessed
its home splitting.

What I’ve got from this inheritance
is delusion of fading destinies,
pieces of sacred covenants,
and Lilliputians living in tall mansions,
whose foundations
still smell blood and sweat
of nameless men and women.

Now that I see cracks
on my rusty walls,
and watch the beams
I wonder,
would they be my only legacy?

Published in Viewpointonline.net



Afraid of Fragile Girl


Afraid of Gragile Girls!

Urdu Poem by Kishwar Nahid


English Translation by Qaisar Abbas

Strong men

afraid of fragile girls

hate to seek knowledge

and worship the same God

who commands to pursue wisdom.

Strong men

 proclaim in cities and towns:

 “No one should dare to have pen and books

and no one should write women’s names.”

And they announce brazenly:

“Every young girl,

ready to fly like a lovely bird

should be veiled,

should stop going to school,

and cease to work outside the boundaries of home.”

Those men

afraid of fragile girls

in their own dark alleys

refuse to allow

charming, bright girls

to show their talents

and shine.

Strong men

afraid of fragile  girls

roam everywhere in the decedent city of ours,

know their faces

as they are capable of doing anything weird

but have no fear

and remember

those frightened men

 are themselves worthless

within their own skeleton!











وہ جو بچیوں سے بھی ڈر گئے

کشور ناھید

وہ جو علم سے بھی گریز پا
کریں ذکررب کریم کا
وہ جو حکم دیتا ہے علم کا
کریں اس کے حکم سے ماورا یہ منادیاں
نہ کتاب ہو کسی ہاتھ میں
نہ ہی انگلیوں میں قلم رہے
کوئی نام لکھنے کی جانہ ہو
نہ ہو رسم اسم زناں کوئی-

وہ جو بچیوں سے بھی ڈر گئے
کریں شہر شہر منادیاں
کہ ہر ایک قدِ حیا نما کو نقاب دو
کہ ہر ایک دل کے سوال کو یہ جواب دو
نہیں چاہیے کہ یہ لڑکیاں اڑیں طائروں کی طرح بلند
نہیں چاہیے کہ یہ لڑکیاں کہیں مدرسوں کہیں دفتروں
کا بھی رخ کریں
کوئی شعلہ رو، کوئی باصفا، ہے کوئی
توصحنِ حرم ہی اس کا مقام ہے
یہی حکم ہے یہ کلام ہے۔

وہ جو بچیوں سے بھی ڈر گئے
وہ یہیں کہیں ہیں قریب میں
انہیں دیکھ لو، انہیں جان لو
نہیں ان سے کچھ بھی بعید، شہرِ زوال میں
رکھو حوصلہ، رکھو یہ یقین
کہ جو بچیوں سے بھی ڈر گئے
وہ ہیں کتنے چھوٹے وجود میں-



Travelogue, English Translation


By Dr. Qaisar Abbas

I sleep, I die

every night

with my entire day’s burden

of sorrows, ecstasies

likes and dislikes

 buried under

the soft sheet

of sweet dreams

with a hope

to born again.

And every morning

the new glimmers of sunrise

wake me up

for a new

 scintillating  start

with new hopes

and renewed aspirations

to set off on my new voyage

of twelve hours.

I, the anonymous

traveler of

twenty four hours

of day and night

of darkness and light

of desires and disasters

unaware of  

where I would end up

 in my new journey.

 I sleep and die

every night

in anticipation of a fresh

beginning in the morning.






Naya Mousam – English translation

English Translation – Spring of Hope

Those who shackle minds
Can’t chain the ocean wave

Those on sandy shores
Can’t hold the surging tide

Descending, twinkling stars
Will brighten dreary nights

Adorning deep horizons
The sun will shower rays

Engraved allover my heart
The passion won’t decay

The breezy, freshly spring
Blows the gloomy day

The frantic wind of change
Those tyrants can’t sway

We’ll reach the destination
Were robbed on lonely trails

Dairey – English translation

English Translation

In our cyclic, tiny world
all lines
move in circles
and all tracks
revolve around
a central point.

Like an unwavering Stallion,
we’re destined to start
in the early hours of dawn
and finish the race
by the dusk
at the same point.

Our eyes are made to see
a one-dimensional world
and our destiny
feelings and vision
are bound to view
the same landscape.

We know
beyond these circles
exists another world
 of unfolding, limitless skies
the moon, the sun and stars
but we can’t dare
to move
beyond our tracks
b’cause our lines
move in circles
again and again
and again.

Ghazal – English translation



Let the moon descend to my soul
To light up my world and shine

Raise a city of brightened nights
Away from dark alleys of mine

Let fill my lonesome eve
With sparkling streams of wine

Let eyes do the magic
When words are silent shrine

Let sorrows wither away
Or they wither the heart of mine

In the walls of time, I am
Nowhere to go, no whine

The night craves for stars
Let’s see who leaves the line

Beyond the Wailing Wall

English Translation

When you get time from prayers,at the Wailing Wall,
look behind,

to see the crumbling ruins,

beyond your towering homes.

Look where sunrays are never allowed,

where rubbles embrace people,

to become walls and doors,

where eyes of natives,

convey eulogies of the past,

and present.

Look where children,

have no streaks of a new dawn,

on their palm,

where all the doves,

searching for peace,

are wounded.

When you get some time,

from prayers,

see yourself,

into the murky mirrors of their faces,

to find your own past,

as you know,

faces are the same everywhere.

But time never stays the same,

vanishing in the realm of moments,

it transforms into the world of nothingness,

and changes destinies,

yours and ours both!

* A holy wall in the Old City of Jerusalem.

Sarey Mousam Zalim Hain

English Transation

All the seasons are unkind,
in the valley,
where rugged mountains,
hand out nothing but fire.
Where dreams bleed into the neighboring river,
where orchards grow bitter fruits of hatred.
No one knows how many human crops
they reaped so far!
And outside the city gate,
mighty lords are gathering again,
to pick another of their own creed their supreme lord,
to barter the very people,
whose only  assets are,
bricks of their muddy home,
a UN’s sack of flour,
cute children with faces of sparkling moon,
some rusty rifles,
and broken dreams by the bedside.
Who knows, how long the game will go on?
Who knows, when the sturdy mountains,
will shield the valley like a solid wall!
Who knows, when rivers will deliver,
the lush green harvest to dry fields again,
Who knows, when mothers’ eyelids
will turn into flames of brightening lamps
and children’s cheeks will glitter with a new dawn of hope?
Who knows, when the valley of the unkind mountains
will rise again?