نثارابڙو
نائب منتظم
Extracts from a Poem by: Shaheed Benazir Bhutto.
I am nearer home than my heart’s beat
I wonder: when will I be free
To return to Larkana
From dust to dust
Loved ones return
.
.
Taking me to where I belong
Although the tyrants do not care
Strands of white my hair now shows
.
.
All on starving backs of people robbed
The sweet lands lie parched
For water people pray
The crops perish
The cattle die
The stoves grow cold
As labour is sent home
.
.
.
One day the tyrants will depart
Public opinion will set us free
There will be dancing in the streets,
Music and song
Laughter will fill the air
As people rejoice in their destiny
Larkana, Loved-one, I remember
The sweet scent of roses
Of fresh rain on desert sand
Of trees washed by nature’s hand
.
.
Much dearer do I hold
Marvi’s ancestral shawl
Symbol of our Treasure
From Marvi I learnt
From past mystic saints
From my dear brother Shah I learnt
That handsome youth who fought another tyrant
That
Were I to breathe my last, living
Away from the home I loved
My body won’t imprison me.
Shah returned home while his soul went free
No stranger to the soil
Embracing his body in death
.
.
.
I raise both my hands
And ask my children
To raise their little hands
Marvi, of Maru and Malir,
In the mists of time
She raised her hands
While the world slept
To God
Full of hope
Praying to see her homeland
Marvi,
.
.
As history’s pendulum swung
The desert wind calls
Marvi calls
A timeless call
A call
The desert wind carries.
Children: Hear the desert wind
Hear it whisper
Have faith
We will win.
I am nearer home than my heart’s beat
I wonder: when will I be free
To return to Larkana
From dust to dust
Loved ones return
.
.
Taking me to where I belong
Although the tyrants do not care
Strands of white my hair now shows
.
.
All on starving backs of people robbed
The sweet lands lie parched
For water people pray
The crops perish
The cattle die
The stoves grow cold
As labour is sent home
.
.
.
One day the tyrants will depart
Public opinion will set us free
There will be dancing in the streets,
Music and song
Laughter will fill the air
As people rejoice in their destiny
Larkana, Loved-one, I remember
The sweet scent of roses
Of fresh rain on desert sand
Of trees washed by nature’s hand
.
.
Much dearer do I hold
Marvi’s ancestral shawl
Symbol of our Treasure
From Marvi I learnt
From past mystic saints
From my dear brother Shah I learnt
That handsome youth who fought another tyrant
That
Were I to breathe my last, living
Away from the home I loved
My body won’t imprison me.
Shah returned home while his soul went free
No stranger to the soil
Embracing his body in death
.
.
.
I raise both my hands
And ask my children
To raise their little hands
Marvi, of Maru and Malir,
In the mists of time
She raised her hands
While the world slept
To God
Full of hope
Praying to see her homeland
Marvi,
.
.
As history’s pendulum swung
The desert wind calls
Marvi calls
A timeless call
A call
The desert wind carries.
Children: Hear the desert wind
Hear it whisper
Have faith
We will win.
