When we launched life on the river of grief, how vital were our arms, how ruby our blood. With a few strokes, it seemed, we would cross all pain, we would soon disembark. That didn't happen. In the stillness of each wave we found invisible currents. The boatmen, too, were unskilled, their oars untested. Investigate the matter as you will, blame whomever, as much as you want, but the river hasn't changed, the raft is still the same. Now you suggest what's to be done, you tell us how to come ashore. When we saw the wounds of our country appear on our skins, we believed each word of the healers. Besides, we remembered so many cures, it seemed at any moment all troubles would end, each wound heal completely. That didn't happen: our ailments were so many, so deep within us that all diagnoses proved false, each remedy useless. Now do whatever, follow each clue, accuse whomever, as much as you will, our bodies are still the same, our wounds still open. Now tell us what we should do, you tell us how to heal these wounds.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz - 1911-1984
Before You Came
Before you came, things were as they should be: the sky was the dead-end of sight, the road was just a road, wine merely wine. Now everything is like my heart, a color at the edge of blood: the grey of your absence, the color of poison, of thorns, the gold when we meet, the season ablaze, the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames, and the black when you cover the earth with the coal of dead fires. And the sky, the road, the glass of wine? The sky is a shirt wet with tears, the road a vein about to break, and the glass of wine a mirror in which the sky, the road, the world keep changing. Don't leave now that you're here— Stay. So the world may become like itself again: so the sky may be the sky, the road a road, and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.