“An
Epistle”
(Referencing to when Zaid taunted Bakr that Bakr’s
mother was more famous than Bakr’s father.)
My Child,
You have to bear this arrow.
This world recognizes a child’s identity
By his father’s name,
But, after all, being known by your mother’s name,
One day you will have to pay a big price
Although the color of your eyes,
The shape of your forehead,
And all the angles of your lips,
Are exactly like that of the individual who is
My partner in your creation
Your recognition in the eyes of society!
But the one whose blood nourished you
For 3 seasons,
That solitary tree has her
Own weather:
With blood harvesting the sifting stars,
The thoughts that go into the creation of
fragrance,
And the act of creating poetry,
Its reigns are no longer in the hands of your
ancestors.
To call the fragrance back was impossible for
Sappho,
Nor was Mira able to do it.
Now, around your peers, your now-and-then
embarrassment,
In front of your acquaintances, your father’s
forced humiliation
Is considered the fate of this family.
Whatever nameplate is placed on the front gate,
The reference will be the same:
Who you are
Or
Who you are not!
Parveen Shakir (24 November 1952 - 26 December 1994)
Translated from the Urdu by M.S. Alverston, 03/01/11.
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