A book may burn. Its idea doesn’t burn.
In fire, it shines – this gold doesn’t burn.
After kicking all from this society,
In name of God, this place doesn’t burn.
O men of power, see the Martyr’s Flame.
The men may burn, their will doesn’t burn.
The rich may burn in envy of the rich.
In envy of crowns, the begging bowl doesn’t burn.
The flame of poetry is strong, O Misra.
It’s just that your kitchen stove doesn’t burn.
Translated from my Hindi poem, नहीं जलता
nahīn jaltā
kitāb jal jāye FalsaFā nahīn jaltā
nikhartā hei āg mein sonā nahīn jaltā
mohalle se sabko nikāl kar kehte hein
ab mazhab ke nām mohallā nahīn jaltā
siyāsat wālon kabhī amar jyot dekho
insān jalte hein irādā nahīn jaltā
jalte honge amīron se dūsre amīr
hīron ke tāj se ye kāsā nahīn jaltā
badī āg lagātī hei shāyarī ‘Misra’
bas kambaKhat ghar kā chulhā nahīn jaltā
Minakhi Misra 