Every day I escape the path of death’s bird,
Yet no face can quench the longing for you—
Not a single form holds your reflection!
Bharumal Amrani
Bharu Mal Amrani is a distinguished folklorist, poet, writer, researcher, journalist, script writer & compere of Radio Pakistan, and social–environmental activist from Tharparkar, Sindh, who has devoted more than two decades to the preservation, documentation, and promotion of Thari dialect, folklore, culture, and heritage. Currently he is working as a subject specialist of Sindhi at Raichand Rathore Government Higher Secondary School, Chelhar. Born on 17 February 1982 in village Soothar jo Tarr near Chelhar, Tharparkar, he obtained his Master’s degree in Sindhi Literature and Education and did law graduation from the University of Sindh, Jamshoro. He is the author of ten books in Sindhi on Thari folk songs, literature, poetry, culture, and history, and has also compiled and translated important works into Urdu and Punjabi, including the Punjabi translation of his book Sahra kay Dohay, to introduce Thar’s rich literary heritage to a wider national audience. In recognition of his outstanding literary, academic, journalistic, and social services, Bharu Mal Amrani has received several prestigious awards.
Not a Single Form Holds Your Reflection!
Every day in the courtyard of my house,
There lives the fragrance of jasmine,
Every day at dawn, butterflies flutter toward me.
Every day within the warmth of my hands,
A body like ice melts away,
Every day at the touch of my hands,
A chest quivers like a wild hare.
Every day, eyes like Tagore’s poems
Offer me sanctuary—
Eyes that possess the beauty of an evening lamp,
And the radiance of the morning sky.
Every day I escape the path of death’s bird,
Yet no face can quench the longing for you—
Not a single form holds your reflection!
* Rabindranath Tagore was a great poet, writer, novelist, playwright, and painter of the subcontinent, who was awarded the Nobel Prize.
ڪنهن انگ تُنهنجو اولڙو نه آهي
روز مُنهنجي گهر جي اڱڻ ۾
رابيل جي خوشبوءِ آهي،
روز پرهه جو پوپٽ اُڏري مون ڏي اچن ٿا.
روز مُنهنجن هٿن جي گرمائش ۾،
برف جهڙو ڪو بدن ڳري ٿو،
روز مُنهنجي هٿن جي ڇهاءَ سان
جهنگلي سهي وانگر ڪا ڇاتي ڦٿڪي ٿي
روز مون کي ٽئگور جي نظمن جهڙا،
نيڻ پناهه ڏين ٿا،
جن ۾ سَنجها جي ڏيئي جهڙي سُونهن آهي
اڀ جي اُهاءَ جهڙو چٽاءُ آهي،
روز موت جي پکيءَ جي پنڌ کان بچان ٿو،
پر ڪا صورت تُنهنجي سڪ نٿي لاهي
ڪنهن انگ تُنهنجو اولڙو نه آهي!
___________________
