O Morning Wind

O morning wind
Stop near my soul.

Give me the sun
Of a color of blood
Without any shadow of a cloud,
The sun that never sets,
In the dark forests of the horizons.

Wearing the sun
On my finger
Like a Sudarshan charka of Krishna
I wish to throw it on them,
Who
cut my tongue and flung it
In the fire of yagya
Om swaha,
offered to the flames
The head of my young daughter,
like a tender flower,
stabbed my sister’s breasts
The rivers of blood
gushed,
buried my father alive,
stripped my mother in broad daylight.

Now my fire will not quench,
Give me the sun
Of the color of blood,
O morning wind,
Stop by my soul.



From ‘Pencil aur doosri nazmein’