In your own art, a thriving star you couldn’t be.
From salary slips, free you couldn’t be.
You only bragged of traveling the world.
Even Berhampur’s Sindbad you couldn’t be.
So what if you had a gun to your head?
A pseudo-Shehrezaad, you couldn’t be?
So what if you remember all your words?
For your words, remembered you couldn’t be.
And why so stingy with giving applause,
When worthy of applause you couldn’t be?
That name, O Misra, couldn’t make you much.
A poet, yes, but poor you couldn’t be.
Translated from my Hindi poem, न हो सके
na ho sake
apne kalām mein tum ābād na ho sake
tankhādār reh gaye azād na ho sake
bas bolte rahe ki duniya ghumoge
tum Berhampur ke bhī Sindbad na ho sake
Bandūk bhi ho sar pe tum kyā hi kahoge
Jān bachāne bhī Shehrezād na ho sake
yād honge tumhein apne ash’ār sāre par
aFsos hei kisī aur ko yād na ho sake
kyon karte ho kanjūsiyān dādbakshī mein
Khud to kabhī Kābil-e-dād na ho sake
ab kyā hi milā Khudko bulākar ‘Misra’
shāyar bhī bane aur barbād na ho sake
Minakhi Misra 