Yet the clear green waters still echo the gibbons’ cries.

Turning back the boat when joy fades holds its own charm,

A thousand years of poetic paths stretch level with the clouds.

Ma Yongbo — Poet & Translator

Cultural Contribution: The first Chinese scholar to systematically translate post-WWII American postmodern poetry, building a bridge for Sino-American poetic exchange and advancing the transformation of avant-garde Chinese poetry.

Poetic Contribution: Introduced postmodern techniques such as meta-poetry, polyphonic narration, and complex individual experiential writing, revolutionizing the aesthetic and intellectual depth of contemporary Chinese verse.

Shared Heritage: He carries forward the same mission as ancient scripture translators. Bridging civilizations across two languages, he revitalizes native Chinese literature with foreign artistic nourishment and unlocks brand-new expressive horizons for the Chinese language.

Ma Yongbo is renowned for his modern avant-garde poetry and translations of European and American verse. In recent years, he has also composed ancient-style poems and traditional regulated verse. His works weave together the vast, rugged experiences of northern China, the tranquil contemplation of his study in Jinling, landscapes encountered on his travels, and intimate reflections on family life. Meticulously crafted in formal meter and rhyme, his verse carries contemporary thematic threads, free from the stale clichés of old literati, blending ecological lyricism with profound meditations on individual existence.

Sacred Sites of Holy Mountains

Morning bells and evening drums permeate the misty vastness,

Buddhist chants drift with clouds, stretching far across the land.

Mountains gain transcendent grace bathed in the light of Zen,

Temples nestle on sacred peaks, guarding the distant wilderness.

Cut off from mortal chaos, pure serenity abides,

Boundless vows of compassion embrace all living realms.

Thousands of years of merciful grace flow endlessly,

The river’s ethereal beauty nourishes the lotus heart.

_____

Ode to Faxian, Eminent Monk of Eastern Jin

At sixty-five he left the passes for Buddha’s land,

Alone he trekked ten thousand li through wild wastes.

Snow shrouds desert depths with countless hidden perils,

One frail boat braves the churning ocean waves.

He roamed all realms to seek the precept canon,

Left a unique chronicle of distant foreign lands.

Two centuries prior to Xuanzang’s pilgrimage,

His eternal wisdom flame lights boundless space.

 ______

Poetic Traces Along Shan Creek

Moonlight over Shan Creek spills across the long dyke;

Du Fu’s verse of its hidden grace lingers in my mind.

I seek famed peaks to follow Xie’s wooden climbing clogs,

And once braved wintry snows to visit An Dao’s abode by the stream.

No trace remains of cave cranes or pool-dwelling dragons,

Yet the clear green waters still echo the gibbons’ cries.

Turning back the boat when joy fades holds its own charm,

A thousand years of poetic paths stretch level with the clouds.

 Notes on Historical Allusions

Xie’s Wooden Climbing Clogs (谢屐):

Xie Lingyun, the founding father of Chinese landscape poetry, invented a special type of wooden clog for mountain climbing while traveling along the Shanying Stream. These later became famously known as “Lord Xie’s Clogs.”

Visiting An Dao’s Abode (访安溪):

This refers to a classic romantic anecdote of the Shanying Stream. On a snowy night, Wang Ziyou took a boat to visit the hermit Dai Kui (courtesy name Andao). Upon reaching Dai’s door, he decided he had fulfilled his desire for the journey and turned back without knocking, perfectly capturing the free-spirited essence of the Wei-Jin era.

Du Fu’s Verse (杜老题):

An adaptation of Du Fu’s lines from his poem A Grand Tour (“Zhuang You”): “The Shanying Stream holds such extraordinary beauty, / A sight so unforgettable, one cannot bear to leave.” (Original Chinese: 剡溪蕴秀异，欲罢不能忘).

_____

Meeting Madam Shen Shuibo After Five Years Apart at Xikou

 Five winters of frost have passed since we parted,

We meet at stream-side, all worldly dust swept away.

We weathered the plague’s trials, our bodies still hale and sound,

The grand hall, long quiet, retains its fresh spring glow unimpaired.

Your Buddhist heart grows clearer, your features radiant and fair,

My faith in the Lord broadens the path of all sacred truth.

I hope we may translate the master’s verses side by side,

Two streams of compassionate light to comfort all mortal realms.

 _____

Thoughts Strolling Along Shan Creek on My Birthday Morning

The ancient stream traces its source to the vast blue sea,

It has witnessed all mortal paths and every earthly guise.

Through a thousand trials, the heart abides steady,

After a hundred sorrows, the true nature rests tranquil.

I trudge alone through misty valleys, wrestling the void,

Weary yet hearing a sacred voice quietly guiding onward.

Turbid waves roll forth, yet my essence never shifts,

My authentic self-endures, eternally clear and bright.

Dawn, July 17, 2026

Xikou, Fenghua

Postscript

The water’s vein mirrors the vein of the soul. May the years ahead find me like this stream of Shan Creek: no matter how many rocky rapids and mist-shrouded valleys I traverse, I shall forever preserve clarity and freedom, peaceful through every passing year.

_____

Translating Wisdom Through a Thousand Years

Kumarajiva translated sutras to awaken Chan’s first light,

Xuanzang journeyed west to unite all spiritual truth.

Ten thousand scrolls of Sanskrit blend with Chinese grace,

A thousand profound precepts expand the written art’s space.

Western verse crosses far seas to open new poetic realms,

A modern scholar wields his brush to carry on the ancient winds.

Sages of old passed the torch; today their path extends,

Master of two tongues, he lifts the vault of written words.

Comparative Notes on Ancient and Modern Translators

Ancient Sutra Translators:

Kumarajiva & Xuanzang

1. Cultural Contribution: They translated Buddhist scriptures from Sanskrit, establishing a complete system of Chinese Buddhism and reshaping the spiritual landscape of the Chinese people.
2. Linguistic Contribution: Coined thousands of new Chinese words including ksana (instant), world, karma, and the other shore, enriching the Chinese lexicon and its capacity for philosophical discourse.
3. Translation Paradigms: Kumarajiva pioneered fluid free translation, while Xuanzang set the standard for rigorous literal translation, laying the foundational rules for Chinese translation over a millennium.

_____

Ode to Visiting Dai on a Snowy Night: Past and Present

Preface

Long ago, Wang Ziyou rowed a boat through snow to visit Dai Kui. He arrived at Dai’s gate but did not knock, then turned back once his mood passed — this showed the free spirit of scholars in the Wei and Jin dynasties.

Now I travel to see a friend in the hot summer. We visit temples together and share kindness, matching the caring heart of Maitreya Bodhisattva. Though times and scenes differ, our inner goals are the same. I wrote two poems, one about the old tale and one about today, to mark this special meeting.

Poem One: The Old Poem

I float on Shan Creek’s cold water, drawn by sudden joy,

Sailing a lone boat through snow night to find an old friend.

All around the white snow wipes away worldly troubles,

A jug of plain wine washes off all life’s hardship.

I reach his gate but do not knock, following old ways,

I leave once my heart feels full, keeping my true self.

No night holds such timeless charm as this one,

The moon glows round over the Cao’e River’s waves.

I finish poems about seclusion and chant them on and on,

Sitting quietly on my small boat, free from worry.

I come and go as my heart wishes, no fixed plan,

Why bother forcing a meeting with Dai Kui?

____

Poem Two: The New Poem

Ancient wise man sailed snow streams to meet his friend,

I travel through hot summer to visit my beloved.

We talk about our beliefs, forgetting the heavy heat,

We walk through temple halls and eat plain vegetarian food.

You put down your writing brushes to practice zen dance,

I keep writing poems, holding fast to my true thoughts.

We’ll wait till spring when peach and apricot flowers bloom,

And meet again on Xuedou Mountain to read Buddhist texts.

We’ll sit in the long porch, listen to rain and brew tea,

All truths lead us to praise the sacred Buddha.

While my body has not grown old and weak,

We will spread Maitreya’s kindness to all people in the world.

_____

Reflections on a Short Stay at Heshiheyuan

1

Trees stand still, veiled in morning mist;

I brush my robes, gazing low o’er the wild.

Through ages past, one such soul lingers here,

Alone facing the stream of Ziyou’s tale.

2

Cherry blossoms like snow brighten clear skies after rain;

Fine drizzle dims the dust and ash.

Birds fly toward the water’s source,

Wanderers return to where they once came.

3

At dawn I watch mist shroud Mount Shan;

At dusk I gather spring along the Shan Stream.

Deep within the clouds of Xuedou Mountain,

Monks’ grey robes fade through countless turns of time.

4

Early cherry blossoms yet unbloomed, mist cloaks all hills;

I sit quiet in the meditation hall amid clouds and streams.

One calm thought endures through thousands of years, silent and still;

Unaware, flower hues drift soft upon my gown.

Composed March 15–16, 2021，revised 16,2026

Heshiheyuan, Xikou, Fenghua

NOTE:

Heshi Heyuan: A Zen-themed cultural hotel situated by the Shan Stream in Xikou, Fenghua. Close to the Maitreya sacred site on Xuedou Mountain, it features serene meditation and landscape aesthetics.

Ziyou Stream: Derived from the classical tale of Wang Ziyou visiting Dai Kui on a snowy night, it is another name for the Shan Stream. This place has long been a retreat for literati throughout history.

Xuedou: Short for Xuedou Mountain, one of China’s five great Buddhist Mountains and the sacred shrine of Maitreya Buddha. It is the core Zen scenic spot of Xikou.

_________________

The post Poetic Traces Along Shan Creek first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Within dikes striped with loess and green grass,

Like a sleeping infant. The surface of its water

Is smooth as an infant’s cream, its hues shifting with every season.

Ouyang Bai

Ouyang Bai, Doctor of Philosophy. Member of the China Writers Association and Vice Chairman of the Hunan Provincial Poetry Society. He has published more than 1,500 literary works, predominantly poems. His publications include six poetry collections and two volumes of literary criticism. In 2004, he founded the Poetry House Website, and together with fellow contributors to the site, put forward the doctrine of “Quality Poemism”. Since 2005 to the present, he has served as chief editor of the annual Poetry House Anthology and the journal Poetry House.

欧阳白，哲学博士。中国作协会员，湖南省诗歌学会副会长。发表以诗为主的文学作品1500余篇（首），著有诗集六部、评论集两部，2004年开创“诗屋网”，并和诗屋同仁一道提出“好诗主义”。2005年起至今主编诗屋年选和《诗屋》杂志。

Translated by Ma Yongbo

August 16, 2014, or Liuyang River

Do not laugh at me—I truly fail to write familiar things close at hand,

Such as the Liuyang River to my left. In my eyes,

It has never flowed. It lies quiet and undisturbed

Within dikes striped with loess and green grass,

Like a sleeping infant. The surface of its water

Is smooth as an infant’s cream, its hues shifting with every season.

The long sand dredger upon its waters seems frozen in place.

Whose accumulated wealth is this?

Silver sand piles high aboard.

Whose time, slipped and hoarded between fingers?

To my sight, it has never slipped with the age

Into the shadowed current of materialism.

Only on Dragon Boat Festival does it stir into bustle:

Dozens of dragon boats, urged onward by drumbeats,

Carve streaks across the infant’s soft skin—

All marks fading fast, returning the river to pure calm.

Cars race back and forth all day along both banks,

Yet the river lies flat as water lilies,

Facing the vast, ash-grey, impassive sky, clear, cool, unperturbed.

Only when I walk to the other side of my desk does it shift, to my right.

2014年8月16日，或者浏阳河

别笑话我，真写不好身边熟识的事物

比如左侧的浏阳河，在我眼里

它没有流动过，一直安安静静地

躺在黄土和绿草相间的堤坝里

像一个熟睡的婴儿，河水的皮肤表面

婴儿般凝脂，颜色却随着季节而更换

河面上那艘长长的挖沙船似乎也没有动过

不知道是谁沉淀的财富

船上堆满了银色的沙子

不知道是谁从指间攒下的时间

我眼中的它，没有和时代

一起滑入物质主义的阴河

端午节时，才变得闹热起来

十几条龙舟在鼓点的怂恿下

在婴儿的皮肤上划出一条条印痕

又迅疾归于澄净

两岸汽车整日飞驰而过

它却和睡莲一样，平摊着

面对阔达、灰白而面无表情的天空

清冽而沉静

只有当我走到书桌对面时，它才移到了我的右边

***

August 17, 2014, or the Flagpole Hidden in Cuffs

You left me three-dimensional memories and desires,

Much like the moonlit shade borne of your restraint.

The closer autumn draws, the hotter the air grows,

Leaving me lost, adrift, at a loss for what to do.

A gust of wind rises, and a tale begins—only to end right after.

Your delicate features seem to hint at some hidden dread.

I know the power supply will hold steady this entire autumn.

Lotus leaves have nearly shed their summer raiments;

I stand daze-struck beside the pond.

Inside the cuffs of your cheongsam lies a flagpole. I spot sails

Rising above the lake’s surface. A crucian carp of autumn mistakes it

For a fishing rod, darting abruptly down into the depths.

Tormented by hunger, it swims back again soon after. I watch its plump,

Rounded body glide nimbly yet erratically through the autumn waters.

I snap off a shaft of sunlight and shoot it into the pond.

At once you grow blurred, cold,

Prone to drowsiness, muttering to yourself without pause.

2014月8月17日，或者袖口里的旗杆

你给了我关于立体的记忆、欲望

就像你的隐忍带来的那片月荫

越是接近秋天，就越是变得燥热

就越是迷惑和不知所措

风一吹过来，故事就开始，随之结束

你那精致的面容，似乎暗示某种恐怖

我知道，这个秋天电都不会停

荷叶已经接近换完装束，我在水池中发呆

旗袍的袖口里有一只旗杆，我看到风帆

立在湖面，一只秋天的鲫鱼错以为那是

一支钓竿，突然潜入深处

碍于饥饿，又忽然折回，我看到它有些肥硕的

身体，在秋水里灵动而又飘忽

我折了一支阳光，把它射进水里

你就开始变得模糊和寒冷

变得嗜睡，变得自言自语

***

October 7, 2014, or A Flake of Snow

A flake of snow cannot stand as an independent word.

How does “flake” become “one”? Just as snow becomes flakes—

How am I to write these untenable characters and lines?

I have no choice but to forget the world,

A storehouse crammed with heavy subjects.

My palms cannot clasp a single stone;

I misread hardness, and misjudged snowflakes too.

Perhaps guilt lingers deep in my heart. I long to return

To the primal starting point called “One”—to think of an egg,

To believe cold might purify overheated blood, a banner.

I think of snow, of white things, white deeds, white affections,

All easily mistaken for warmth,

Like summer in the Southern Hemisphere.

Bearing this guilt, I wish to melt away,

Vanish within the tiniest unit of time,

A fleeting flush of awkward shame, for instance.

I do not believe the vast white land is pure at all.

Beneath the whiteness lies filth and tangled chaos—

Illusions, yet undeniably real.

2014年10月7日，或者一片雪

一片雪不能作为一个可以独立的词

片如何成为一的？就像雪如何成为片

我如何写下这种不能成立的字与句

我不得不忘记这个世界

那么多沉重话题的仓库

手握不住一块石头

我误读了坚硬，也误看了雪花

可能还是心里有愧啊，想回到最初的

那个叫做一的起点，想一个鸡蛋

想寒冷能净化燥热的血，一面旗帜

想雪，想白色的物，和白色的事，白色的情

可以被误读为温暖

就像南半球的夏天

心里有愧，就希望能被融化

在一个最小的时间单位消失

比如一个不恰当的红脸

我不觉得白茫茫一片大地有多干净

白下面有多脏，有多复杂

这些虚幻而又存在着

____________________

Read: Wild Chrysanthemums – Chinese Poetry

The post Liuyang River – Poetry from China first appeared on Sindh Courier.

We merely lifted

A single word

Justice.

Nisar Banbhan 

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society. 

We Did Not Raise a Gun

We did not raise a gun.

We merely lifted

a single word

Justice.

And every rifle

in the city

trembled

at the weight

of that one word.

They kept believing

that fear

is the most faithful soldier

of a state.

Yet fear

never outlives

the morning dew.

When the sun

finds its way

into the eyes of the people,

empires

begin to shiver

before the shadows

they have cast themselves.

I have seen it

every dictatorship

mistook

the echo of its marching boots

for the heartbeat of history.

But history,

every single time,

placed its ear

upon the chest

of a hungry soul.

And there

it heard

the pulse

of revolution.

Hunger…

is not always

the emptiness of a stomach.

There is a hunger

for justice.

A hunger

for dignity.

A hunger

for that freedom

where a pen

may finish

the sentence

it has begun.

And then,

someone

walks away from bread,

so the world may understand

that sometimes

hunger itself

becomes

another name

for resistance.

And a silent body

can speak

louder

than a thousand slogans.

Nonviolence

is not the act

of laying down weapons.

It is the courage

to imprison

the vengeance

within oneself.

It is the grace

to keep the door of hatred

closed,

even with wounded hands.

It is the quiet miracle

of preserving

the last candle

of love

inside

a burning heart.

For violence

is the language

of the oppressor,

while love

remains

humanity’s

last mother tongue.

A state…

when it begins

to hear

only the voice

of guns,

the law

becomes an orphan.

The constitution

turns into

a forgotten scripture,

buried beneath dust

inside

an abandoned cabinet.

And justice

wanders

along the margins

of history,

searching

for its own name.

Yet the strongest wall

any nation can ever build

is never

an arsenal of gunpowder

it is

the trust

of its people.

We never pledged

our loyalty

to any ruler.

We placed our hands

only

upon the pages

of the Constitution.

We asked

for nothing more

than this

Let the law

belong equally

to everyone.

That single sentence

became

the most dangerous slogan

any tyrant

had ever heard.

They imprison

conscience.

They place guards

over words.

They lock voices

inside dark cells.

But they forget

walls

cannot imprison sound.

They only carry

its echo

farther.

I have seen

honest women and men

sitting

inside prison cells,

yet standing taller

than entire halls of power.

For thrones

need guards.

Conscience

never does.

Remember this

when a state

refuses

to hear

its own people,

the streets

begin to speak.

Crossroads

become courtrooms.

And silence

starts

delivering verdicts.

This earth

has never belonged

to swords.

She remembers instead

the farmer’s plough,

the worker’s hands,

the teacher’s pen,

a mother’s prayer,

and those

who dared

to tell the truth

far longer

than she remembers

the conquerors.

Those who say

that guns

protect a nation

forget one simple truth:

A gun

may defend

a border.

It can never

create

a homeland.

A homeland

is built

with justice,

with law,

with equality,

with the trust

of its people,

and with a love

where disagreement

is never mistaken

for betrayal.

We do not ask

only

for the freedom

of political prisoners.

We wipe

the dust

from the Constitution

by speaking

their names.

We say

never place

handcuffs

upon a conscience.

For when conscience

begins to walk,

history

walks

beside it.

And listen…

If you lock

every truthful mouth,

the wind

will speak

through trees,

through rivers,

through rain,

through the laughter

of children.

And one day,

you will discover

that revolution

was never resting

upon the shoulder

of a gun.

It was growing

silently

inside the eyes

of an ordinary human being.

And when those eyes

finally rise,

no empire

will recognize

the ruins

of its own walls.

___________________ 

Read: Days Wander Aimlessly Without You

The post Poem: We Did Not Raise a Gun first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Zaffar Junejo

[Author’s Note: I joined a non-government organization in mid-1993. In those days, we were frequent travelers to other Asian countries, and during that period I maintained a diary. I once showed the notes to Muhammad Ibrahim Joyo — the legendary scholar, translator, and intellectual giant of the Sindhi world — who suggested categorizing the entries by theme and getting them published. He recalled that long ago, perhaps in 1955, the Sindhi journal Mehran had launched a similar idea titled ‘Hik Deenh Ji Ghaleh’ (The Story of a Day), even offering a prize for it. He himself had submitted the first story, he told me with a smile, just to set a standard for other writers. Later, Maulana Ghulam Muhammad Girami, a scholar of high standing and journalist; Shamsher ul Haidri, a distinguished Sindhi poet, journalist, and playwright; and Siraj ul Haq Memon, an iconic novelist, linguist, and journalist, all contributed their observations of a single day. These writings were published until 1968.

I agreed with Joyo Sahib that I would group the write-ups by subject and get them published, but I failed to do so. Recently, I sat down to organize my notes. I found various entries about the taxi drivers of Karachi city. Some were very brief and incomplete; others were short but held a finished truth. I have chosen five stories from each year, all of them gathered from the drivers of those cars. In total, there will be thirty-five stories covering the period from 1993 to 2000.]

The Republic of Bystandism

The sky over University Road didn’t just hold rain; it bruised. Heavy, graphite clouds hung so low they seemed to scrape the tops of the decaying concrete plazas. Below them, the streetlamps bled a sickly, sulfurous yellow onto the wet asphalt. I stood on the curb, the chill biting through my collar, frantically flagging down the yellow Mehran cabs splashing past toward NIPA. If the storm broke now, the city would drown, and my cubicle would remain a distant shore.

A battered taxi, its yellow paint peeling like sunburned skin, skidded to a halt. I wrenched the door open and threw myself into the back seat, cutting off the bite of the wind.

The interior smelled of old tobacco, damp vinyl, and unspoken grievances. We rode in a heavy, shifting silence as the engine rattled violently past the dome of the PIA Planetarium. Through the cracked rearview mirror, the driver’s eyes locked onto mine. They were deep-set, dark, and heavy with the exhaustion of a man who saw too much of Karachi’s underbelly.

“Need petrol,” he grunted, his voice like grinding gears.

“The next pump is right there,” I said, gesturing toward the brilliant, fluorescent glow of a commercial station a thousand yards ahead.

He grunted a refusal, swung the wheel hard to the left, and veered down a fractured side street. “Not that one. The pumps there are rigged by ghosts.”

“A favorite spot of yours, then? Do you get a kickback?”

“No. Just the truth.”

We rolled into a dimly lit, skeletal filling station that looked like a relic of a forgotten decade. A lone attendant, wrapped in a frayed shawl, moved like a phantom in the gloom. The driver didn’t ask for a full tank. He simply held up three fingers: “Six hundred rupees.”

As the pump clicked, I leaned forward, resting my hands on the frayed fabric of the front seat. “Why this ghost town? The other station is brighter, faster.”

“The meter runs true here,” the driver said, not looking back. “In this city, an honest meter is a revolutionary act. You get what you pay for. The fuel isn’t stretched with kerosene.”

“Fuel economy is just mechanics,” I argued, playing the skeptic to draw him out. “It’s about your engine’s efficiency.”

He slotted the car into first gear and slammed his foot down, pulling us back into the chaotic arteries of the morning traffic. “A clean engine dies on dirty blood. It’s not mechanics, my friend. It’s politics. Irani petrol floods the veins of this province, and the state is the junkie.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. “How does a syndicate that massive operate in broad daylight?” I asked.

A humorless smirk cut across his weathered face. “Because everyone takes their communion. The border guards open the gates, customs agents lose their ledger books, the pump owners fix the price, and the bureaucrats sign the permits in air-conditioned offices. It’s a beautifully orchestrated machine. A democracy of thieves.”

He swerved violently to avoid a pooling pothole, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“They have a hierarchy for the poison,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave. “The highway trucks get the sludge. The second-tier, diluted garbage goes straight to the fringes—the katchi abadis. They pump it into Shirin Jinnah, Gadap, Sohrab Goth. They choke the poorest neighborhoods first, because the poor don’t have the paperwork to complain.”

“An absolute institutional collapse,” I murmured, staring at the blurred landscape of concrete and power lines.

“Collapse? No, it’s a masterpiece. It works perfectly for the people who designed it.” He suddenly pointed out the window toward a ramshackle wooden cigarette cabin on the corner, where a vendor was lighting a match. “Look at him. Go ask that man how the tankers sneak past the toll plazas at midnight. He will draw you a perfect map, complete with the names of the officers on duty. He knows everything.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone speak up?”

“Because if you ask that same man to stand as a witness? To sign a complaint? He will change his tune, look at his shoes, and tell you he has a family to feed. We have plenty of analysts in Karachi, but no martyrs.”

The taxi screeched to a final halt outside my office block. The corporate glass facade reflected the dark, unforgiving sky.

“Corruption doesn’t survive because of the men at the top,” the driver whispered, finally turning around to face me as I handed him his fare. “It survives because our morality has a price tag. We trade our outrage for an easy life.”

“Then how do we break a machine like that?” I asked, holding his gaze.

“You can’t educate a spine into a man,” he said softly. “Society lacks the moral courage to fight the very monster it feeds.”

I stepped out into the damp, heavy air. As the yellow taxi vanished into the grey morning gridlock, his words remained behind, echoing like thunder over the roar of the city.

_____________________

Dr. Zaffar Junejo has a Ph.D in History from the University of Malaya. His areas of interest are post-colonial history, social history and peasants’ history. He may be reached at junejozi@gmail.com 

Read: The Tales of Taxi Drivers – Part-1, Part-2, Part-3, Part-4, Part-5, Part-6, Part-7, Part-8, Part-9, Part-10, Part-11, Part-12, Part-13, Part-14, Part-15, Part-16, Part-17, Part-18, Part-19, Part-20, Part-21, Part-22, Part-23, Part-24, Part-25, Part-26, Part-27, Part-28, Part-29, Part-30, Part-31, Part-32, Part-33,

The post THE TALES OF TAXI DRIVERS first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Come upon them

Golden light swaying at the cliff’s edge…

Zhuang Xiaoming

Zhuang Xiaoming, art name Dongxiang, was born in Yangzhou, Jiangsu Province, in April 1964. He is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and a member of the Jiu San Society. He has published a large body of poems, critical essays, prose and fictions in numerous journals nationwide. Twelve works have come out in print, including poetry collections Evening Breeze, Treading Snow to Go Home, Shape and Shadow, Requiem for Wenchuan, Echoes of Heavenly Questions, Poetry and Thought and A Dictionary of Zhuangzi; prose collection Skylight of Time; fable fiction collections Net in the Air and Notes from Dongxiang; short story collection Fables and Labyrinths; and poetics treatise Retreating Vanguard. His writings have been anthologized in dozens of selected works, such as Appreciation of Famous Modern Chinese Poems, A Hundred Years of Modern Chinese Poetry, A Century of New Poetry from Jiangsu, Twenty Folk Poets of 20th-Century China, Fifteen Mid-generation Poets of the First Fifteen Years of the 21st Century, as well as annual anthologies like China Annual Poetry Anthology, China Poetry Ranking List and bilingual Anthology of Chinese Poems (Chinese-English). Net in the Air is included in the series One Hundred Classic Micro-Fictions of a Century. Shape and Shadow is listed on the Canonical Poetry Roll of the Lixiahe Literary School. The magazine China Talents ran a special feature covering his literary achievements. He has also composed ten poetic dramas. On the evening of December 20, 2023, his poetic drama Regret for the Past • Zijun premiered successfully performed by the Fanding Theatre Troupe at Hongshan College, Nanjing University of Finance and Economics. His honors include the 2nd Zijin Mountain Literature Prize of Jiangsu Province, the Critical Writing Award of China Regional Poetry Prize, the 6th China Long Poem Prize, the 2025 Outstanding Chinese Poetry Critic Award, the Excellent Thesis Award of the 9th Huaxia Poetry Prize, and the Excellent Thesis Award of the First Frontier Dialogue Between New-Style and Classical Poetry. He currently resides in Yangzhou.

庄晓明，号东乡。1964年4月出生于江苏扬州。中国作家协会会员、九三学社会员。曾在各大刊物发表诗歌、评论、随笔、小说若干。已出版有诗集《晚风》《踏雪回家》《形与影》《汶川安魂曲》《天问的回声》《诗与思》《庄子词典》，随笔集《时间的天窗》，寓言小说集《空中之网》《东乡笔记》，短篇小说集《寓言与迷宫》，诗学论集《后退的先锋》等12部。作品入选《中国现代诗歌名篇赏析》《中国百年新诗经》《江苏百年新诗选》《中国二十世纪民间诗人二十家》《21世纪15年中间代诗人15家》，及《中国年度诗选》《中国诗歌排行榜》《中国诗选》（汉英双语版）等多种选集。《空中之网》入选“百年百部微型小说经典”。《形与影》入选“里下河文学流派经典诗歌榜”。《中华英才》杂志曾对其文学成就做了专题报道。另创作有剧诗10部，2023年12月20日晚，创作的剧诗《伤逝•子君》，在南京财经大学红山学院由凡丁剧社成功首演。曾获第二届江苏省紫金山文学奖、中国地域诗歌奖评论奖、第六届中国长诗奖、2025年度华语诗歌杰出诗歌评论家奖等。以及第九届“华夏诗词奖”优秀论文奖，首届“新旧体诗前沿对话”优秀论文奖。现居扬州。

Translated by Ma Yongbo

Wild Chrysanthemums

I wander, and by chance

Come upon them

Golden light swaying at the cliff’s edge

The dark abyss below, the sapphire vault above

All are fused as one

By this wavering gold

All creation lays bare, each mirroring the other

Golden sparks keep surging upward

As if a celebration unfolds

They sway along the cliff rim

Fading away in solitude

As though they had never been

Yet one strand of golden radiance

Still roams on, borne by my brush

Crossing the world’s far edge

野菊

我漫游，偶然中

遇见了它们

金色的光，摇曳于悬崖边缘

沉黑的深渊，湛蓝的天幕

由于这金色摇曳

而焊为一体

万物敞开，相互为镜

金色的焰火，不断升起

仿佛一个节日

它们摇曳于悬崖边缘

将寂寞中凋谢

似从未存在

但有一束金色的光

仍在漫游，随着我的笔

穿越于世界边缘

***

You and I

You and I

Live in adjoining rooms

With a door

That sways now and then

You and I

Are close sometimes

Strange other times

Like strangers on a chaotic street

You and I

One heads east

One west

Yet meet around the corner now and then

You and I

Turn toward emptiness at times

Talking of each other

As if speaking of another planet

You and I

Roam our separate starry skies

Yet sometimes feel

The gravitational pull between us

我与你

我与你

住在相邻的房间

有一扇门

时而晃动

我与你

时而熟识

时而陌生

像在混乱的街头

我与你

一个向东

一个向西

却时而墙角相遇

我与你

时而面向虚无

谈论彼此

像谈论另一个星球

我与你

各自的星空漫游

却时而感着

彼此的引力

***

Echo

Empty valley

Echoes linger

Chasing themselves

Against the valley’s twin cliffs

They bounce

Interweave

With every drift back and forth

They absorb more of the valley’s hollow breath

Little by little they forget

Which flees

Which pursues

Forgetting they once sprang

From a single call

They drift farther apart

Growing alien to one another

Trapped between

The valley’s two stone walls

And also between

You

And me

回声

空谷

回声在

自我追逐

在空谷的两壁

弹弄

交织

每一次摆渡

便加入一些空谷的元素

它们渐渐忘了

谁在逃亡

谁在追逐

忘了它们

来自一个呼唤

它们愈行愈远

渐渐陌生

在空谷的

两壁之间

在

我与你

之间

___________________

Read: The Wild Steed – Poetry from China

The post Wild Chrysanthemums – Chinese Poetry first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Shipwrecked in the bottom of a coffee,

Where the sun goes out.

 Maria Teresa Liuzzo

Maria Teresa Liuzzo (Reggio Calabria, Italy) is President of the “P. Benintende” Lyric Dramatic Association, journalist, translator, writer, editor, commentator, director and founder of the international culture magazine LE MUSE, Deputy Director of “Artes e Tv”, PhD in Psychology and Professor of Philosophy and Modern Literature (Leibniz University of Santa Fe, New Mexico, USA) and member of the Academic Senate. She is also the Executive member of “Sirius” (Bonn), Wow (Russia), Kult Apogeum (Denmark), “Gazzetta Culturale Rol” (Brazil), and “Detectiv Press” (Scandinavia). She has published 35 books in 32 languages. She has translated and published poets from five continents. Maria Teresa Liuzzo’s works have been introduced, translated, and reviewed by four Nobel Prize nominees for Literature: Peter Russell, Athanase Vanthchev De Thracy, Maria Luisa Spaziani, and Licio Gelli. She contributes to several magazines in Italy and abroad, as well as websites and blogs.

WEATHER SHINES IN THE RAIN

Slides over the bodies reflected in the glass,

Shipwrecked in the bottom of a coffee,

Where the sun goes out.

They slide over the eyes

Storms of blue and I

Tattered sail adrift.

Currents push me

To the seas beyond,

Where I look for a flower

In the depths.

 ***

 YOU ARE NIGHT AND SILENCE

Shiver of shadow,

Water on the word, on the incandescence

Of the rhythm. You are doubt, a worm in the mind,

Fracture, segment, limit that the vision

Prevents the beyond. I pick flowers of light

In your eyes, dawns on my anxieties,

Echoes of other lives: memory and oblivion

They alternate, in secret saps and buds.

I am a night rose

In your hands…

 ***

YOUR NIGHT INVADES ME

I’m a waiting tide

Of the full moon.

The wave washes away

Memory rocks

Like the light of doubt

The reason.

Free the word

From the point

Of the brief illusion.

We get lost

In the unbridgeable

Distance

Of hands

That touch each other.

___________________ 

Read: Returning to Shine

The post Weather Shines In The Rain first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Make me an immortal—an eternal part of human history.

​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, including the Sindhi Language Authority Award (2018), Sindhi Adabi Sangat Award for Best Research Work on Folk Literature, Climate Award, Sufi Harchand Rai Award, Faqir Muqeem Award, Pakistan Mother Languages Literature Shield, Dewal Mata Kharoro Cultural Committee Award, Federal Urdu University Sindhi Department Shield, and the Asif Farrukhi Ilm-o-Aagahi Award (2022).

Immortal Part of Human History

My Creator!

I am profoundly grateful to You.

You did not punish me for abandoning the company of woman;

Instead of turning me into a detached ascetic,

You have made cascades of beauty flow before me,

And ignited the blazing fire of love within my soul.

Despite the hundred bitterness’s and hundred sorrows of this world,

You have taught me how to embrace and love this life.

​These are Your boundless blessings upon me,

And I yearn to sing of them!

​My throat does not possess the soulful melody of a cuckoo bird,

Nor does it hold the sweet resonance of a peacock’s call.

Yet, if You so desire,

You can bestow this profound power upon me.

​I am now plucking the strings of Mira Bai’s ektara,

Shattering the shackles of caste and creed,

I bow down in deep reverence to Ravidas!

​My mentor, Bhittai, proclaims:

“Grace is not bound by caste; whoever strives, receives.”

​I have sought refuge in Sami.

Whenever I have bowed my head,

I have bowed it only before the divine beauty created by You.

You are far beyond human intellect,

And completely transcendent to earthly knowledge and understanding.

May Your profound compassion remain with me forever!

​I have no desire for the moon,

Nor do I wish to become the sun!

For even the moon must endure nights of absolute darkness,

And even the sun is eclipsed by drifting clouds.

​Before I am reduced to just a character in some mythical folklore,

Make me an immortal—an eternal part of human history.

_____________ 

*Shah Abdul Latif and Sami are classical poets of the Sindhi language.

**Ravidas and Mirabai are classical poets of the Bhakti movement. Mirabai was a princess of a Rajput ruling family, while Ravidas belonged to the Chamar (Shudra) caste. Breaking the barriers of the caste system, Mirabai chose Ravidas as her Guru (spiritual teacher).

انساني تاريخ جو اَمر حصو

مُنهنجا خالق !

آءٌ تُنهنجو ٿورائتو آهيان

تو مون کي ناريءَ جو سنگ

تياڳ ڪرڻ جي سزا نه ڏني آهي،

تو مون کي تارَڪ الدُنيا ڪرڻ بدران

مُنهنجي اڳيان سُونهن جا آبشار وَهايا آهن،

عشق جي آوي ٻاري آهي،

زماني جي سون تلخين، سون دردن هوندي ڀي،

هن زندگيءَ سان پيار سيکاريو آهي،

تُنهنجا اهي مون تي احسان آهن،

آءٌ انهن کي ڳائڻ ٿو چاهيان

مُنهنجي ڪنٺ ۾ ڪوئل جهڙي ڪُوڪِ نه آهي،

۽ نه مور جي ٽهوڪي جهڙو مِٺاس آهي،

تون چاهين ته

مون ۾ اها سگهه پيدا ڪري سگهين ٿو،

آءٌ ميران ٻائيءَ جي يڪتاري کي ڪَشي رهيو آهيان،

مون ذات پات جي ٻنڌڻن کي ٽوڙي،

روِي داس کي پرڻام ڪيو آهي!

مُنهنجو مُرشد ڀٽائي چوي ٿو ته:

“ڏات نه آهي ذات تي، جو وهي سو لهي”!

مون ساميءَ جي سام ورتي آهي،

مون جڏهن به سرجهڪايو آهي،

اهو تنهنجي تخليق ڪيل سونهن جي اڳيان ئي جهُڪايو آهي،

تون انساني عقل کان اوُچو

۽ ڄاڻ اڻ ڄاڻ کان مٿانهون آهين؛

مون تي اها تُنهنجي شفقت شل قائم رهي!

مون کي نه چنڊ جي تمنا آهي،

نه سج ٿيڻ جي آرزُو !

چنڊ کي به اونداهيون راتيون ڏسڻيون پون ٿيون،

سج اڳيان جُهڙ اچن ٿا.

مون کي ڪنهن ديو مالائي ڪٿا جو حصو

بڻجڻ کان اڳ ۾

انساني تاريخ جو اَمر حصو بڻاءِ .

_______________

Read: Echoes of Prayer from the Sandbanks of Thar Desert

The post Immortal Part of Human History first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Has never ridden

Any horse at all…

Gu Bei

Gu Bei, was born in Minhou County, Fujian Province in 1965. He is a core founder of the Fanke Poetry Society. He has published six poetry collections including Pure Silver, Disciple of Ecstasy and Notes on Reading Lions. His poems, prose and literary critiques have appeared in domestic and overseas newspapers and periodicals such as People’s Literature, Poetry Journal, Chinese Writers, Poetry Monthly, Poetry Tide and Southern Weekly. His poetic works have been anthologized in numerous selected volumes, namely Chinese Poetry Since 1991, Selected Chinese Poems of the New Century, Anthology of Twenty Years of Chinese Online Poetry, One Hundred Poets of Min School Poetry in a Century, Cross-Strait Poetry Collection of the 21st Century (Wuxu Volume) and Anthology of Modern Poetry of the 21st Century. He has won honors including the Annual Outstanding Poet Award from Selected Poems Journal and Fujian Provincial Excellent Literary Works Award. He has served as an initial judge for the Haizi Poetry Award for three consecutive sessions.

顾北，男，1965年生于福建省闽侯县。反克诗社主要发起人。著有诗集《纯银》《狂喜之徒》《读狮记》等6种。在《人民文学》《诗刊》《中国作家》《诗歌月刊》《诗潮》《南方周末》等国内外报刊发表过诗歌、散文、评论等。诗作收入《1991年以来的中国诗歌》《新世纪中国诗选》《中国网络诗歌20年大系》《闽派诗歌百年百人作品选》《21世纪两岸诗歌鉴藏（戊戌卷）》《21世纪现代诗歌鉴藏》等。获得“诗选刊”年度优秀诗人奖，福建省优秀文学作品奖等，连续三届担任“海子诗歌奖”初评委员。

Translated by Ma Yongbo

The Wild Steed

He who has never ridden a wild steed

Has never ridden

Any horse at all

Between horse and wild steed

I once thought there was but one difference

Horses come in every shade

Yet the wild steed bears only one hue

Crimson red —

Its temper

Its speed

Its longing

Its very being

And even its love

Only red can bear witness to all of it

When it stands still and calm

The gaze it fixes on you is as if it stares

Into a sea of blazing fire.

烈马

一生没有骑过烈马的人

当然也没有骑过

马

马与烈马

我一直以为就一点不同

马有各种各样颜色

而烈马颜色只有一种

——红

它的脾性

它的速度

它的梦想

它的存在

甚至，它的爱情

唯有红色可以证明

它安静站着

看你的眼神，仿佛看着

一片沸腾的火海

***

The Guilty Flesh

I secretly convict my own flesh of guilt

Consumed by shame. Often I dream

I slip down cliff faces, making no effort to survive

Or dream of a great plague yet refuse to accept reality

These are trivial things, the worst affliction is colour blindness

The world is sick, and faith has caught vitiligo

When rain falls, the crowd’s surging longings

Are hollow and false, like scarecrows standing in the fields

They exist only to pretend the future will be pure. I am guilty

Grass blades crawling across the earth cling tighter and tighter to the soil

They too refuse to depart — these artificial gadflies

Just like our forefathers! Ah —

My flesh is guilty. Though I dwell within it, I cannot

Halt the endless flood of hallucinations. O heaven, O divinities,

This mortal world spares no soul

I am the digger of my own grave, and yours as well

身体有罪

因为羞耻，暗暗判决自己的

身体有罪。常梦见自己

从崖壁滑落而不愿求生

梦见大疫却不愿认同现实

这些都没什么，最严重的是色盲

这世界病了而信仰染上白癜风

雨落下时世人升腾的夙愿

多么虚伪，像田野上的稻草人

仅限于保证未来是纯洁的。我有罪

匍匐大地的草茎对土地越抓越紧

他们也不愿离开——这仿生的

先辈一样的牛虻！唉——

我的身体有罪。我跟它在一起却不能

阻止幻觉一再出现。苍天呐，神明呐

这人世就没饶过谁

我是自己的掘墓人，也是你的。

***

Father

Father in the old kitchen

Is like air

Like the years, months and days

That lie plain within this kitchen

I push the creaky kitchen door with effort

As if pushing Father’s hunched back—sour, slow yet steady strong

Often I reach to pull the light cord

But Father waves his hand firmly: No need

This stove room is known to me

As intimately as every stretch of land

Upon your mother’s body

Father in the old kitchen

Has melted into everything here

And I am the extra part

That does not belong to this kitchen

父亲

老灶间里的父亲

像空气一样

父亲就像老灶间的

年月日，明摆在那儿

我艰难推动老灶间的门

像推动父亲的背，酸酸的，缓慢而有力

经常时候，我拉开老灶间的灯泡线

父亲却坚定地摇手：不用

这一间灶堂，我熟悉得就像你母亲

身上的每一寸山河

老灶间里的父亲

已是所有物事的一部分

而我，就是老灶间

多出的那部分

__________________

Read: Father and Mother – Chinese Poetry

The post The Wild Steed – Poetry from China first appeared on Sindh Courier.

The days,

With a few broken coins of time

Jingling in their pockets,

Keep wandering

Through forgotten streets.

Nisar Banbhan

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society. 

The Days Wander Aimlessly Without You

You are not here…

The days,

With a few broken coins of time

Jingling in their pockets,

Keep wandering

Through forgotten streets.

Every evening

Perches upon the branches of trees,

Thinking your name,

Then quietly

Folds its wings into silence.

The sunlight

Resting by the window

Lingers for a long while,

Pretending to be

The echo of your approaching footsteps;

Then, exhausted,

It scatters itself

Across the floor.

I sit here,

Holding

An unfinished moment

Upon the palm of my hand,

Like a child

Who still insists

That a broken firefly

Can somehow

Give birth to light.

Come, someday…

 Lay your smile

Upon the forehead of these wandering days.

For they have waited

For far too long,

Like a prayer

Still yearning

To be answered.

______________________

Read: Like a Falling Leaf…

The post Days Wander Aimlessly Without You first appeared on Sindh Courier.

Noor Muhammad Marri Advocate | Islamabad

I share an important work of Friedrich Nietzsche that I hope you would like to study and understand. To truly grasp the story of human thought, we must first confront a deeply uncomfortable truth: what our society labels as “wisdom” is rarely an encounter with raw reality. Instead, it is usually a beautifully crafted system of comfort, designed to reassure us and keep our doubts at bay. Through his philosophical guide, Zarathustra, Nietzsche tears away the mask of the “famous wise men”—the celebrated scholars, court philosophers, and religious leaders of every age. His critique is not aimed at their intelligence, but at their lack of courage. He exposes a quiet, unspoken transaction at the heart of intellectual fame: these thinkers exchange the cold pursuit of truth for the warm embrace of public reverence. They do not lead humanity into the challenging, unfamiliar light of discovery; rather, they find clever ways to justify and sanctify the existing prejudices, superstitions, and comforting illusions of the crowd. They are not pioneers of the unknown; they are the highly educated guardians of things exactly as they are. This realization forces us to look at how power quietly preserves itself through the very minds that claim to be free, turning our deepest intellectual efforts into mere ornaments that celebrate the status quo.

To make this dynamic clear, Zarathustra offers us a powerful image. He tells the famous wise ones that they have served the people and the people’s superstition—not the truth—and that this is the sole reason they have been given such high honor. In this view, the collective beliefs, fears, and moral demands of society are like a heavy, lumbering carriage. The famous intellectuals are the strong, obedient beasts of burden—the camels—harnessed to the front. They do not choose where the carriage goes; their only job is to pull the weight of the crowd’s illusions forward, giving society the comforting feeling that it is making intellectual progress. Because they pull this weight, the crowd cheers them, feeds them, and crowns them with honors. Yet, this respect is entirely conditional. The moment one of these thinkers tries to steer the carriage off the paved path of popular belief and into the rocky, untamed wilderness of real truth, the crowd turns on them in anger. The public does not crave enlightenment; it craves validation. The famous wise man knows this instinctively, and so his life’s work becomes a sophisticated exercise in keeping the peace, weaving elaborate theories to prove that the crowd’s current prejudices are actually eternal, sacred truths.

We can see this compromise playing out clearly across the pages of history, where intellectual survival has almost always depended on going along with the crowd. Centuries ago, the intellectual peak of Western civilization was dominated by the Scholastics. These were brilliant minds who spent their entire lives trying to blend Christian theology with Aristotelian philosophy. They built an incredibly complex intellectual world, yet its primary purpose was to protect a deeply comforting, human-centered idea: that our Earth sits motionless at the absolute center of God’s creation. When early astronomers began to observe celestial movements that proved this was not true, these famous scholars did not celebrate the discovery of reality. Instead, they used their immense talent to build increasingly complicated mathematical models to defend the old illusion. They chose the comfortable superstition of the people because their own status, safety, and authority were entirely woven into that planetary myth.

We see the very same human struggle in ancient China. During the rise of the great imperial dynasties, the esteemed court scholars and Legalist philosophers did not search for the objective nature of justice or human freedom. Instead, they dedicated their minds to justifying the absolute power of the Emperor. They designed intricate philosophical systems to argue that the complete surrender of the individual to the state was in perfect harmony with the natural order of the universe. For this, they were rewarded with high offices and deep respect. They were celebrated by the ruling class and the public alike, but their wisdom was merely a beautiful shield for absolute power. In the nineteenth century, as European empires spread across the world, the leading academics of the day behaved no differently. Rather than objectively recognizing the shared humanity of those they conquered, they created theories of scientific racism and Social Darwinism. They took the raw, violent desire for territorial conquest and renamed it “The White Man’s Burden,” presenting imperial plunder as a noble, scientific duty to civilize the world. The public and the politicians showered them with titles and chairs at prestigious universities because their “wisdom” successfully transformed conquest into a holy crusade.

If being a famous wise man means helping to pull this heavy carriage of social illusion, then the true seeker of truth—the free spirit—must choose a lonely, opposite path. Nietzsche describes this journey as a profound transformation of the human soul through three distinct stages: the camel, the lion, and the child. The journey begins with the camel, the beast of burden that kneels down, eager to carry the heaviest weights of tradition, duty, and the beliefs of the past. The camel takes pride in its strength and its obedience. This is the stage where we master the existing knowledge of our culture. But to find genuine wisdom, we must carry this weight deep into the lonely, silent desert. In that isolation, the camel must transform into the lion. The desert is a place where the illusions of society lose their grip on us. Here, the lion confronts a great dragon whose name is “Thou Shalt”—the embodiment of all social rules, traditional morals, and collective superstitions. To this dragon, the lion must say a defiant “I Will.” The lion does not seek the applause of the crowd; it seeks its own freedom. It must break its revering heart and reject the very foundations of what society holds sacred. Yet, even the lion’s anger and destruction are not the final destination. The lion can only clear away the old; it cannot build the new. For true creation to happen, the spirit must undergo one last change and become a child. The child represents a fresh start, a clean slate, a sacred play. Free from the heavy burdens of the past and the need to fight, the child creates and discovers truth naturally, like a wheel rolling on its own power.

The ultimate tragedy of the genuine thinker is their unavoidable loneliness. The person who dares to walk into the quiet, burning desert of independent thought is rarely welcomed by the crowd; they are feared as a threat. Because the free spirit refuses to pull the carriage, society labels them as dangerous, eccentric, or lost. Yet, history shows us that the individuals who truly moved human consciousness forward were almost never the famous wise men of their times. They were the outcasts, the quiet rebels, and the solitary souls who chose the silence of the desert over the roaring applause of the city. To speak the truth is to accept the loss of public praise. It is a quiet, difficult path, traveled only by those whose love for what is real is far stronger than their need to be comforted.

Read: Class Question in Baloch Society

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Noor Muhammad Marri Advocate and Mediator, Islamabad

The post The Servants of the Beast first appeared on Sindh Courier.