Be paches baeg te kaend dhapi dech daamni tham mya
Be khaches baali te puche loanchi lomum buth phaer waavan
Mya dichaav thakh ti su kanni pal chol khori tali neereth
Mya dichai thap sou nech ghasi kreti nee aaban
Wakh te chol tchaali divan bete ruzes safri
Bi kanden waavi dakan pali dari das beyyi ghaasi krechen
Ches ni nakhi doori wun khotchaan maareth traavan
Mya yiman rassi rassi ker ghed ti borem daamnas
Bhaagi wech shesh mya zi woli taazi golabo peth pakh
Baali wech sonti shehej graai hawhech mya Wanaan
Wali walai paan bi cheenes dedwan paanas
Myani khori talchi zameeni chu arman dalan na mya kadam
Yaari bael yup chu thekaan myoon jigar aawlyanen
Myaani barri tali chu chalaan samyi sadam chayi chayi
Kaale chekras chay ghatchaan myani misl pehrnai galli zev
Waale waashan chi tchenaan ghand yi wudav mean wusheth
Bas akoi baas ti ehsaas bi chus lalli waan andrae
Daur e duniya rued mya tchere tchan chaayan poat poat
If I Declare, Discerns Who?
As I treaded through a garden,
a thorny bush grabbed my skirt.
As I ascended a hillock,
an arrogant gale tugged my scarf’s fringe
As I halted to rest awhile,
slipped away the boulder that cushioned my feet.
As my hand struggled to grasp it,
the water washed away that emaciated grass loaf
Escaped treacherously, the time as well
and perpetually I remained , journey bound too.
Now thorny bushes, rattling gales
rolling boulders or grassy loaves,
be abreast my shoulders,
scare me to death
no longer, not any more.
Bit by bit, I bundled them up
and in my hem, I buried them all.
From gardens has been sent
a word to me now
“Come walk over the roses young”,
readied for me now
From hillock has descended,
a soothing spring breeze announcing,
“Come let me wrap myself
around your being so desolate”
The earth underneath my feet
yearns to kiss the steps impending.
The speeding waters at Yaarbal
boast of my courage to curious whirlpools.
Just through my door slits
stealthily are slipping agonies of time.
The wheel of time stammers, flummoxed
even before my mention strikes.
Knots in the fishing nets are rent asunder
gaping at the majestic flights I assume.
Yet there is single consuming feeling
rearing that I am inside my bosom
that the world outside could only speculate
and rumour behind the shadows I cast.
Naseem Shafaie is an award-winning Kashmiri language poet writing about a range of topics including a woman’s perspectives of the political turmoil in Kashmir. She has published two collections of poems Derche Machrith (1999) and Na Thsay Na Aks (2009). Her works have been translated in six languages.