Legacy

I’m about to turn twenty-five.
Some hair has started silvering.
People say the water must be bad.
Or I’ve carried the load of studies for too long.

Who sees how every night
I mix in ink a bit of my throbbing age
And smear it into lines of verse?

One day, when this body of dried dung
Becomes ashen remains on the stove of time,
It’s only these few words that will remain
To give you all the taste of my little life.

Afterall, sweetmeats deserve some silver foil.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, विरासत

virāsat

pachchīs kā hone wāla hūn.
bāloN mein ab chāndī āne lagi hei.
log kehte hain pāni kharāb hogā
yā padhāī kā bojH kuch zyādā Dho liyā hogā.

kaun dekh rahā hei kaise roz rāt
tHoDī dhaDaktī umr syāhi mein ghol kar
misron mein pot rahā hūn?

ek roz jab sūkhe uploN sā jism
waqt ke chulhe pe rākh ban jayegā
yahī chand alfāz reh jayengi idhar.
Mere chhotī sī zindagī kā swād de jāyengī sabko.

ākhir chamcham pe thodī chāndī to bantī hei.