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ON PAKISTAN'S 54TH INDEPENDENCE DAY
What should I write about my land,
54 whirlwinds of time's span,
Ignored causes, deprived masses,
Like froth on the seashore's sand.
Exploitation and sin are tall trees,
Woodcutters have started to decrease,
Might is right is the law here,
There is no joy but hunger, fear.
The men in white hide their tears,
The women are burned on funeral pyres,
The children are toiling night and day,
And terrorists their cursed games play.
Was this the dream of the East's poet,
Was this why sacrifices were made,
Was this why so many homes were razed,
For this, did a thousand flowers fade?
Let me not listen to the peers,
I shan't be consoled by the wise,
I shall be the most surprised,
If a reformer in this land appears.
