Aslam Hassan is an Indian poet writing in Hindi and Urdu. Born and brought up in Bihar, Aslam received his education from Alighar Muslim University and Patina University. He has authored a number of books and appeared in diverse literary journals and publications. Based in Mumbai, Aslam works as Commissioner, Customs, under 'Indian Revenue Service'.
My poems are probably paper horses
Or, just the acrobatics of words
I feel the pain in the delicate cells of imagination I create a world with hollow rhetoric I skillfully stitch the patches of emotions on the hard bones of the skull and thus in the middle of the page I write the pain of the margins...
I am a labourer,
The earth trembles in my arms,
I can break mountains
And divert the flow of rivers...
My feet are very strong...
I do not get tired, I do not stop,
I lift the world on my shoulders,
I have revolution in my fist,
I have songs on my lips and tears in my eyes, My stomach... my stomach...
No, I cannot lie.
When you wake up, you will see
That some fireflies had spread some light And a few flowers had preserved their fragrance.
When you wake up, see
How the night would have passed, After what struggle the sun would have risen on the horizon.
When you wake up, you will see
The sky has decorated itself
With rainbow rays; the earth has preserved the traces of every drop of dew.
When you wake up, you will see
Your world is more beautiful than dreams, Where sleep sleeps on the footpath and Muniya sings even on an empty stomach...
As the days go by
Responsibilities are increasing
And I am diminishing as well
My existence is shrinking drop by drop
Perhaps life is a habit of living day and night Like other habits, this habit too does not leave easily Like betel nut and tobacco, this life is like paan and tobacco which keeps on dissolving silently in the mouth of time.
In childhood, I had heard from my mother We are dolls of clay, God created us from soft clay, We have to return back to its soft lap.
I don't know
Where that soft effect of the sweet lullaby got lost And how our land became hard And we turned into stones without even realizing it.
Far away from our narrow streets,
the dark, carefree paths
still connect me
with the dark soil.
I search for my childhood in the black and white goats Spread out in the courtyard, In the sun-bathed mustard and in the dusty mischiefs.
I search for my existence in the moist eyes of carefree people who tell me the tales of flourishing crops.
I want to tell my children the story of clay, I want to show them the potter's wheel, delicate clay toys taking shape, and colorful people and folk songs .
I want to embrace the children and hum a warm song to them.
If it is a little moist,
this soil is very fertile,
Saki...
