ANOTHER OF GHALIB'S JOKES Poem by Nachoem M. Wijnberg

I go from door to door like a dog or a cat because otherwise I have nothing to eat,
sometimes they give me something because they've heard I write poems.

A joke the way one tries to be more generous than the other,
each time a door opens, I look as if I am longing for something, I can see that from their faces.

It's true, I write as if I'm translating from another language
and doing my best to stick as closely as possible to the parts I have understood.

I wished that someone would come to explain to me what a poem is to someone who is not human,
then I might be better able to explain what a poem is.

Someone asks you if you're not going to cut off someone's head today.
Today? Whose head would that be?

While I explain to you where I am, as if I am explaining a joke before I tell it,
you come up behind me - please don't scare me like that.

I can't joke about everything, not that my jokes are always successful,
and then say something as if I mean it and it will be ruined if someone doubts it for even a moment.

Don't tell Ghalib that he is ironic, because he doesn't want to be,
except when he can hardly breathe - yes, then he wants to be ironic.

Again Ghalib says something that is just a little too wise, instead of one prime number after another,
so that those who hear are almost certain that thought has gone into what is being said, can't he do better?