FOR PARVEEN’S⁽¹⁾ SON

My moon-faced nephew,

eyes which had dreamt

only about you are shut.

After many a dream

and crossing oases,

she got you, your love.

You the fragrance ⁽²⁾

for which she rejected ⁽³⁾

the garden’s bounties.

In a field of marigolds

she talked to herself. ⁽⁴⁾

Her hues lent colour

to your life.

Geetu, epitome of

her every dream,

‘the glory of full moon’, ⁽⁵⁾

Under heaps of earth

lies the intellect

whose voice teemed with moons,

whose poetry, a repository

of youthful dreams,

won masters’ enconiums.

Yes, my moon-like nephew,

one whom we buried was

not only your mother

but voice of an age.

Her work infused the

world with fragrance.

She who on a

voyage of fragrance,

was tormented by flowers’ plight.

In a cascading

surge of recognition who knew,

she will leave us all

and be topped by earth

and disintegrate quietly.

(Translated by Prakash Chander)

(1) Parveen Shakir (1951-1994), eminent Urdu poet.

(2) (3) (4) Her collections: Khushboo, Inkaar and Khud Kalaami

(5) Her collected work, Mah-e-Tamaam

published posthumously.