Treasure Island

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

(23 July 1936 - 7 May 1973 / Punjab / British India)

High Mountains


The sun peeks out
From behind the high mountains,
Planting little seedling of light.
It crushes the yellow sunshine
Into small pieces,
Making anklets for the mountain tops!

Ankle deep in the wind
Flow perfumes,
The birds fall asleep.
Through a clump of green trees
A water channel flows
Piping a melody!

Seeing the blue lotus
In the mirror- like water
The drooping leaves weep.
The wind has tied
Tiny anklets around its feet,
And stamps her heels as she walks!

Raindrops asleep
On soft, tender shoots,
Are lit by sunbeams.
A tiny, golden bird
Calls to the travelers
With shrill whistles.

In the clear blue sky,
A kite circles,
Among the rays of light.
A flower becomes a drinking station,
As it offers droplets of sweet dew
To the bees.

A butterfly is at the door -
The maulsari spreads its fragrance generously,
Like alms to a mendicant!
In such a season,
In the name of your daughters,
Cover my pain
With a layer of sighs.

An old, tired ache
Plays guessing games,
On the paths of my sight.
A sweet, moody separation
Breaks over me,
And eats into my bones.

Unearth a way that I can
Meet my beloved,
And relieve my longing for a glimpse of her.
Bereft of our beloved,
We infatuated ones,
Are called insane.

There is no one here mother,
Whom I can call my own,
Who will share my pain.
At such a time, without my beloved,
I cannot spend a moment
In your town.

The sun peeks out
From behind the high mountains,
Planting little seedling of light.
Crushes the yellow sunshine
Into small pieces
To make anklets for the mountain tops!

Submitted: Monday, March 26, 2012

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