The South Asian Peoples Forum UK is
reproducing this poem as a tribute to the progressive and revolutionary writers
of the world. It was written by Ahmad Faraz, while in exile in Britain, to
appose the military dictatorship in Pakistan.
My enemy has sent me a message
that his soldiers have encircled me.
On every parapet and minaret of the
city wall
his troops are standing with bows in
hand.
The lightening bolt has been extinguished
whose heat fired the volcano in the
body of clay
The dynamite has been laid in the water
of the canal
which used to come to my alley.
All those with outspoken mouths
have become torn bodies.
Those with unbowed heads
have been led to the gallows and the
rope.
All the Sufis and saints, every Sheikh
and Imam
hope to find favour at the court of the
rulers.
The dignitaries of the law courts
wait to take oaths like beggars squatting
at the side of the road.
You who praised the honesty of the
writers
those stars of consummate skill are
before you.
With a mere signal from a court
attendant
crowds of beggars of the spoken words are
before you.
Look at the principles of those
unworldly loyalists who are with you look
around!
So the condition of saving your life is
to place your pen and slate in the
killing fields.
If not you will be the only target of the
archers this time.
Therefore surrender your integrity.
Seeing the treaty I spoke to the
messenger.
He does not know what history teaches.
When the night martyrs the sun the
morning sculpts a new one.
So this is the answer to my enemy.
That I am neither greedy for favours
nor afraid of pain.
He is proud of the power of the sword
but he does not know the protest of the
pen.
My pen does not commend that protector
who is proud of besieging his own city.
My pen is not the bowl of the simple
fool
who renders praise-poems to the
usurpers.
My pen is not the tool of the
housebreaker
who makes a hole in the roof of his own
home.
My pen is not the friend of the
midnight thief
who scales the walls of lamp less
houses.
My pen is not the prayer beads of the
missionary
who always keeps account of his
worshipful deeds.
My pen is not the scale of the judge
who places a double veil over his face.
My pen is the pious gift of my people.
My pen is the court of my conscience.
That is why what I have written is
written with a fevered soul.
That is why it has the tension of the
bow and the tongue of an arrow.
