Pants
In times I feel thankful
For place of my birth
Birthplace looks like dhow
Baluch is on Eastside
And Kurds on the Westside.
I have lived with them both
Listened, talked, heard speech
Feel dancing when see them
Exchange words and speak
Most of words are the same
Their myths and stories
Are rooted in same seed
Of same land, same tree.
Love them both
Have no doubt we are one…
Their pants are one style
I tried what they wear, tribal
Their sittings are puffy
Imagine an A/C
Radiator coiled, winding.
Baluch keeps the cool and
The Kurdish preserves
Remain of body heat
One lives in plain, heat
Another in cold, hills.
Praise them, they are wise.
Thanks to them I have home
Damn scissors cuts, divides!
Hell to those who raise walls
Divide and send to sides…
This is what do the thieves…
Hypnotise to steal,
Amuse us with the false:
"Different is each kind,
Red, Yellow, Black, White! "
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I wish there were some background notes on the poem. It is vigorous and full of verve. I hope you've got your poems published in reputed poetry journals.
You are both kind and correct...thanks.