Hands

I had asked for a home
And they buried me alive.

I had asked for a small piece of land
And they put a stone of migration on my head.

I had asked for bread
And they put live coals on my tongue.

I had only asked for a book
And they poured the molten lead in my ears.

I raised my head
And they chained me.

When I passed from that road with banner in my hand,
They chopped and flung my hands away.

But one day
the earth will soften with my blood
And from those hands
will sprout
thousands of hands
And that shall be
the last night of the atrocities.


From ‘ Pencil aur doosri nazmein’


 

Thousands of Hands

I asked for a homer,

And they

Buried me in the ground.

I asked for a small patch of land,

And they burdened my head

With the rock of exile.

I asked for bread,

And they

Put a burning coal on my tongue.

I asked for a book,

And they poured

Molten lead in my ears.

I raised my head,

And they

Chained my neck.

When I came out

With a flag in my hand,

They severed my hands.

But one day,

My blood will moisten

This barren land,

To grow thousands of hands:

My hands.

Thousands of hands,

And the last night of tyranny.

Tr. Baidar Bakht