Aashish why don't you also record 'O hansani, meri hansani.."?

This the translation of a poem I wrote a year ago. Atis did such an amazing work as a translator. I cannot thank him enough for this beautiful lyric. 

Nepali Kavita

Phoolon Ke Rang Se

Se Eu Quiser - Moésio

A woman is every face 
with the awareness of being watched 
that little twich of her lip, or her frown 
is never entirely for her own,
even when alone
she is meant to ‘look’ glorious 
Beyonce announces for the world to see
‘I woke up like this.’

Li Young’s little brown spots, 
that mark the ripening of Parsimmons.
Parsimmons 
in the human world 
cannot just ripen without any sign
they must leave a trail of fragrance 
for her executioners 
to come find her
eat her
meat .

A woman must smell good, 
even her cunt should smell of rosebud
the morning breaths 
are the gentle punishment 
she must undergo everyday 
fresh 
whether or not she feels to it
Can a rose in a florist’s stand afford staleness?
But a rose, so bright and bloody 
so delicate a creature 
as the rose pruned carefully in the florist’s stand,
can she, but ever, be happy?

Happy?
A rose need not be happy.
Children are happy
A woman isn’t a child
paedophile
to strangle a rose 
isn’t a crime
a woman must bleed 
in tears and blood 
she must lay passive 
like a virgin land under the trampler’s greedy foot
the creeks, the gorges, the turfs 
the sea
the brine, where the seeds of life germinates 
the tremulous land of mystery
forever rising, forever falling
the symphonoy of endurance 

each day,
the life etches into the walls of her reef ,
scrapping her tender flesh 
like a farmer digging in to sow potato
sometimes, she yields 
sometimes, she chokes
and weeps

the puffed up bags under her eye
the agitated blood capillaries on her face
the swollen sinus from hours of crying
she cannot face herself in the mirror
where must I hide this ugly face?

There are lotions, there are concealers
there are endless bottles filled with the syrup of sympathy
for the face of a woman gone ugly

She rummages through them
dabbing everything she can get her hands on
the bottles rattle and fall down with heavy, sinister sound 
making her heart pound 
but the darkness is setting soon
the melancholic angel of death 
will be riding on the gentle, silvery filaments of moon
etching the fine lines around her eyes
stuffing a pound of meat, in the slim column of her waist
a building gone awry 
the sigh
the music of mortals. 



- bhushita

Mudita's Album

Every Woman

Mora Saiyaan mose bole na_puneet kapoor

This is one of my favorite poems of all time. I had heard this melody long time ago and sometimes in my meditative hours, it comes ebbing, in a slow cadence, like a tall stick of candle melting slowly into the night. 

सितारों से आगे जहाँ और भी हैं

अभी इश्क़ के इम्तिहाँ और भी हैं



तही ज़िंदगी से नहीं ये फ़ज़ाएँ

यहाँ सैकड़ों कारवाँ और भी हैं



क़नाअत न कर आलम-ए-रंग-ओ-बू पर

चमन और भी आशियाँ और भी हैं



अगर खो गया इक नशेमन तो क्या ग़म

मक़ामात-ए-आह-ओ-फ़ुग़ाँ और भी हैं



तू शाहीं है परवाज़ है काम तेरा

तिरे सामने आसमाँ और भी हैं



इसी रोज़ ओ शब में उलझ कर न रह जा

कि तेरे ज़मान ओ मकाँ और भी हैं



गए दिन कि तन्हा था मैं अंजुमन में

यहाँ अब मिरे राज़-दाँ और भी हैं



-अल्लामा इक़बाल

(painting by unknown)

Phoolon Ke Rang Se

Max

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