By Fiza Pathan
Oh! I have come across a sort of verbal arsenal,
Mother of mine is ranting away about what I have done.
About my ill-befitting behavior, with a Shah from the West.
She abuses me as she escalates on my wrongs.
Her curses are being sung in a sort of arsenic song.
Mother of mine has dug my grave,
Besides a scorpion filled well.
But what must or can I do dear ancient one?
I am in love with this rugged man.
He has a light brown beard,
As long as the grace of the seer.
His eyes are sparkling with the light of the sunrise.
My sunset has turned into dawn’s great big lust.
But Mother is still not willing to agree
She says that words were always meant to deceive.
She says he will betray me in the form of a krait.
His fangs are sharper than a venomous snake.
But I know my aged Mother has got it all wrong.
She has derived a worm looking at the fruit of desire.
His walk is stately, almost masterly
He wears a ruby on his index finger.
I’ll race again towards this dashing young Shah
Who places the world on my little right thumb
Mother says, I’m being fooled as fooled can be.
Mockery and blasphemy is the smell she gets
From his thick manly hide.
But what can I do, Oh dear old seer?
The Shah has offered me a diamond
He wishes to marry me in my own person.
Crystal rocks don’t cut hearts, so it must be love.
Poor Mother grunts and bellows to disagree.
A warning finger she holds up in front of me.
To beware of the red fox that is nocturnal.
To beware of the blackness, in the navel of the bright moon.
But it is almost fully noon,
And purple is the mist that blinds.
My tapestry to the edges, now I shall ride away with him.
For Mother what can I do?
I’m all clay in the potter’s hands.
The golden shaft of cupid has pierced my breast,
Before I go insane, let me take a fair horse and go along.