Even among the lucky, unlucky is he
Who’s just chewed a paan, when someone brings tea.
The people, who live in black marble homes,
Complain of their guests’ black-eyed jealousy.
No one’s surprised that Chandu’s aunt ran away.
Only on full-moon nights Chandu’s Uncle comes to see.
Compared to one with only pictures of God,
The idolist thinks he’s the greater devotee.
There will be more days when writing is tough.
A poet is one who can still write poetry.
Translated from my Hindi poem, क़िस्मत
kismet
kismetwālon mein bhī badkismet use kahā jātā hei
jisne pān dālā hotā hei koī chāy le ātā hei
kāle sangmarmar wālon kī pareshānīyān aur hein
ghar āyā rishtedār unpe kālī nazar lagātā hei
kisīko heirat nahīn ki chandū ki chāchī bhāg gayīn
chandū kā chāchā to bas chāndnī rāt mein pās ātā hei
bhagwān kī mūrat biTHāne wāle ko ye waham hei
wo badā bhakt hei usse jo bas ik taswīr lagātā hei
aur bhī din āyenge aise jab likhnā mushkīl hogā
shāyar wahī hotā hei jo tab bhī misrā likh pātā hei
Minakhi Misra 