Whirlwinds dance,
Shrouded in sheets of humidity,
They stay in a trance of dance.
Each day the flock of sheep
In hot burning graze lands
Of small thorny trees
And brackish shade
Fall upon each other
To find a reason to breathe.
Shepherds
With dry eyes,
Tanned faces and
Empty starving stomachs,
Tie burning sand to their feet.
All day long under
The skeletons of their hand
With drooping eyes
Far away but a little above the
The surface of the desert
They see a congregation of mirages.
Sun, adding heat to the extremity of their thirst
Slowly coils down.
Drenched in the mud of Sindh,
Dying to sleep
With thirsty trembling waves,
Where should these poor go
For even when they weep
Grains of sand fall in place of tears
Written by Ayub Khawar
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
your translation has a rhythm of its own, i liked the poem and enjoyed reading the poem, well-composed, thanks for sharing, if you find time please read some of my poems and leave your valuable comments.