To The Gushes Of Wind Poem by Shahida Latif

To the Gushes of Wind
Oh! The winds your gentle gushes,
Bear with the fragrance of the land,
Of five waters, the dust of the streets,
Where I spent the golden age,
With the playful vivacious mates,
From whom the tides of time set me apart,
And the log of my existence wallowing,
Had been thrown on the far off cold shore.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether children still play marbles in the dusty streets,
Drawing the rings and placing them in the middle.
Strike them aiming precisely with the finger middle,
Placing thumb in the dust to support the hand,
Shriek with excitement as they hit the target,
Excelling one or two out of the circle.
Whether they with the satchel and wooden slate,
And with the grey clothes still go to schools,
Count the tables aloud; and at afternoon return,
Tired, exhausted with impatient frolic movements.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether the young boys and girls,
Still play hide and seek at the moonlit nights,
Run they through the open wall- less yards,
Where the elders laid their cots,
To enjoy the pure carefree serene sleep,
That led them into the profound valley,
Of predicting dreams: admonitions, shadows,
Of the encroaching hovering mishaps,
Or the bearers of fine blissful tidings.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the damsels, old men and women,
Labour in the farms with mowers and scythes,
Patiently wait for the sunset behind the far off hills,
Staggeringly with the bundles of fodder or grass
On their heads return to homes.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether herdsmen, shepherds and shepherdesses,
Still enhance their herds to the nearby pastures,
With the clicking sounds waving the sticks in the air,
Following their faithful dogs behind.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still on the drum beats all are thrilled,
On the wedding of a butter-fed sons and daughters,
Around the drum beater the cheerfully dance,
Forgetting all seeds and roots of isolating odium.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still lowering thick black clouds of Sawun,
Fly, hovering over the lands, pastures and plains,
And bring the torrential rains filling the streets,
With water and under the falling, flowing spouts,
The children still take the most delicious bath,
And run after the paper boats splashing all around.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the children run after the butterflies,
Behind the colourful dreams, flying desires,
Chase carefree of all anxieties, woes and worries,
In the spring when mustard blossoms yellow.
As if the bride of Nature seems clothed, clad,
At the night to celebrate the rite of Hina.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the exhausted farmers get together,
In the month May to thrash the golden crop of wheat,
In the round hard pressed trodden piece of land,
They move and move on the circled heap of hay,
With the yokes of oxen dragging dry thorny twigs,
From morn to the sunset and making the long grave,
Of hay with buried grain walk wobbly to homes,
With rakes and flails to sleep the sleep content.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still early in the morn the damsels,
Sitting by the wooden frame churn fermented milk,
Pulling the ends of cord coiled round the churner,
And rumbling sounds gurgle out of each home.
Mixed with the recitation of the Holy Divine Book.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the village folk assemble in the graveyard
Exchange the hands to dig grave, the most durable house,
When one departs to the world next, and then they carry
On the shoulders the deceased amid the chorus of verses,
Reciting, recalling the name of the most Sacred Being,
Grieve, cry and shriek cascading the falls of tears.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the kids when the night befalls,
Surround their grandmothers; listen to the fairy tales,
Of the legendry kings, princes and princesses too,
That lead them to the mystical world of ecstatic joys,
Offering them shelter from the hunting chasing miseries.

Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still maids, damsels, and wedded women,
On Thursdays, go to the shrine of Baba Pir, with the dishes
Of mustard-oil to light up the lamps, illumine the grave,
And they with the subdued low voice mutter, mumble,
The prayer for the safe return of the brothers, fathers,
And the engaged partners who render services,
To defend the borders of the motherland.


Oh! The wind, whisper to my troubled heart,
Whether still the village folk in hot days of summer,
Sit under the banyan, in its cool thick sheltering shade,
The lasses and matured women in gaiety swing,
With its bending, lowering twigs,
Oscillating between the earth and the sky,
Exhibiting the desire to escape from the world,
But the claws of gravity bring them back, draw them down,
To suffer, groan and moan.

Oh! I have been driven, drifted by the time-tides,
Onto the distant shores of the western world,
Where I trudge through the marshy lands,
The lusty desires have pushed into the quagmire,
Where I behold loathsome humanity slobbering, sniveling,
My heart urges to fly me back to have a glimpse
Of the fair face of my own mother land just once,
Before the Death Angel lays His wings to have me a ride,
My perturb soul pleads to entrust my skeleton,
Into her rocking, cradling lap where she will sing a lullaby,
The same lullaby that I heard in my infancy.