Words across languages.

Today, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from inside your grave” And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page Once, a daughter of Punjab cried; you wrote a wailing saga Today, a million daughters, cry to you Waris Shah Rise! O’ narrator of the grieving; rise! look at your Punjab Today, fields are lined with corpses and blood fills the Chenab Someone mixed poison in the five rivers’ flow Their deadly water, now, irrigates our lands galore This fertile land is sprouting venom from every pore The sky is turning red with endless cries of gore The toxic forest wind, screams within its wake Turning every singing flute into a deadly snake With the first snake-bite; charmers lost their spell The second bite turned all of them into snakes as well Drinking from this deadly stream, filling the land with bane Slowly, Punjab’s limbs have turned black and blue with pain The street-songs have been silenced; cotton threads have snapped Girls have left their playgroups; the spinning wheels have cracked Our wedding boats; their oarsmen, have sent them all asea Our hanging swings broken; by their sheltering Pipal tree Lost is the flute, which once blew sounds of our heart Ranjha’s brothers, today, no longer know this art Blood rained on our shrines; drenching them to the core Princesses of amore, today, sit crying at their door Today, all are ‘Qaido;’ thieves of beauty and ardor Where can we go to find, another Warish Shah once more Today, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from inside your grave” And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page

Today, I call Waris ShahToday, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from inside your grave” And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page Once, one daughter of Punjab cried; you wrote a wailing saga Today, a million daughters, cry to you, Waris Shah Rise! O’ narrator of the grieving; rise! look at your Punjab Today, fields are lined with corpses, and blood fills the Chenab Someone has mixed poison in the five rivers’ flow Their deadly water is, now, irrigating our lands galore This fertile land is sprouting, venom from every pore The sky is turning red from endless cries of gore The toxic forest wind, screams from inside its wake Turning each flute’s bamboo-shoot, into a deadly snake With the first snake-bite; charmers lost their spell The second bite turned all and sundry, into snakes, as well Drinking from this deadly stream, filling the land with bane Slowly, Punjab’s limbs have turned black and blue, with pain The street-songs have been silenced; cotton threads are snapped Girls have left their playgroups; the spinning wheels are cracked Our wedding beds are boats, their logs have cast away Our hanging swing, the Pipal tree has broken in disarray Lost is the flute, which once, blew sounds of the heart Ranjha’s brothers, today, no longer know this art Blood rained on our shrines; drenching them to the core Damsels of amour, today, sit crying at their door Today everyone is, ‘Qaido;’ thieves of beauty and ardor Where can we find, today, another Warish Shah, once more Today, I call Waris Shah, “Speak from inside your grave” And turn, today, the book of love’s next affectionate page