Peace, thy olive wand extend,

And bid wild War his ravage end,

Man with brother Man to meet,

And as a brother kindly greet;

Then may heav’n with prosperous gales,

Fill my sailor’s welcome sails;

To my arms their charge convey,

My dear lad that’s far away.

On the seas and far away,

On stormy seas and far away;

To my arms their charge convey,

My dear lad that’s far away.

Be it our blood or theirs, it is blood bath to humanity on both sides

Peace is the first casuality with the killings of humans, be it East or West

Whether cannons fall on homes or borders, it is only the spirit of creation which is wounded

Whether it is their field or ours which burns by bombing, it is human life which is wrecked by starvation.

War tanks, advancing or retreating, they only make the womb of Mother Earth barren.

People have to mourn at the corpses of the dead, be it a victory celebration or the laments of defeat.

War is itself a problem, what solutions can a war offer

Today, it will rain fire and blood; tomorrow, hunger and scarcity

Thus, listen o civilized humans, better war be avoided at all costs,

As only such a resolve will ensure the fire of life continues to kindle in our courtyards and hearths intact

Translated from Urdu, read the original version here: https://www.rekhta.org/nazms/ai-shariif-insaano-khuun-apnaa-ho-yaa-paraayaa-ho-sahir-ludhianvi-nazms

No one wants to be weepy.

Each time I hear a name,

I wonder which list it’s from—

from the register of the dead,

or the survived.

Tiny little insects, which live for a day

to go away in the night, may be mocking us,

our ephemeral lives!

The deceased or the living?

Where shall I write their name down?

Whose name will be published

on what side of my memory?

How long will it last?

Will it be washed away with soap?

Will it be clawed out with scabs?

If I can’t have chicken, can I have pork?

In this country, that’s become a celebrity

of a country all the world over,

a chicken egg may be a cele while it lasts.

Things must be preserved in resin.

When corpses were piling up,

fortunately, shall we just say “fortunately”,

while the crematorium was available for a while

my uncle turned into smoke.

I was happy-sad.

‘happy’ or ‘sad’,

I didn’t know where to begin.

I hid behind a face covering

I got away for a while.

To hear the poem in Burmese, go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDN2E-d-TBY&ab_channel=AsianAmericanWriters%27Workshop