On The Subject Of Poetry, By W. S. Merwin In Hindi/Urdu Translation Poem by Ravi Kopra

Meri samaj main nahin aata, mere khuda
paani ki chukki k paas, bageechay ki seema par
ek aadmi jhuka hua nadi main chaltay
wheel ki awaaz sun raha hai
lakin wahan nadi main chalnay walay
kisi wheel ka namo-nishan nahin hai

March k aakhri din vo wahan betha hai
bageechay ki seema pe vo baitha hai
haath us k jaib main hain
kya honay wala hai uski soch main nahin hai
na hi kya kal hua vo sun raha hai
us k liye wheel hi chal raha hai

Jab main kuch kehta hoon to mere khuda
duniya ki koi baat mujhe kehni paDti hai
us k paaon hil nahin rahay
na hi vo apna sar hilata hai
is dar se k kahin paani ki awaaz
jo vo sun raha hai kahin badal na jaey
jo vo sun raha hai lagta hai
k vo kisi k chillaey bina
us k dard ko mehsoos kar raha hai

Mere khuda, mujhe, vo jaisay sunta hai
ye pasand nahin hai k sun-nay se pehlay
vo sunnay k liye apnay ko tyaar karta hai.
ye samaj main nahin aata, mere khuda
kis vaja se wheel chalta hai
halaN ki wahan koi wheel nahin hai

Main uski baat kar raha hoon, mere khuda
kyon k vo wahan hai apni jaib main haath liye huay
bageechay ki seema pe baitha hai
chaltay wheel ko sun raha hai
halaN k whahan koi wheel nahin hai
ye hai is duniya ki chaal
jo main samaj nahin paata. mere khuda.

***

'On the Subject of Poetry, ' by W. S. Merwin

I do not understand the world, Father.
By the millpond at the end of the garden
There is a man who slouches listening
To the wheel revolving in the stream, only
There is no wheel there to revolve.

He sits in the end of March, but he sits also
In the end of the garden; his hands are in
His pockets. It is not expectation
On which he is intent, nor yesterday
To which he listens. It is a wheel turning.

When I speak, Father, it is the world
That I must mention. He does not move
His feet nor so much as raise his head
For fear he should disturb the sound he hears
Like a pain without a cry, where he listens.

I do not think I am fond, Father,
Of the way in which always before he listens
He prepares himself by listening. It is
Unequal, Father, like the reason
For which the wheel turns, though there is no wheel.

I speak of him, Father, because he is
There with his hands in his pockets, in the end
Of the garden listening to the turning
Wheel that is not there, but it is the world,
Father, that I do not understand.