Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Popati Hiranandani

Birthplace

Where the branches of trees sway,
and roses, seeing their movement, blush . . .
where sweet-smelling breezes
murmur messages of love to leaves,
and the leaves laugh gently in delight:
that is the place where I was born.

Where nature – a nymph – teases wheat fields,
transforming them into a magical land;
where the river Sindhu welcomes us,
enchanting as Princess Moomal;
where ventilators on terraces
usher in cool south-west winds;
where pomegranate buds, bowers of grapes,
and the sweet smell of mogras embrace us –
Where otakoon resound with the menfolk’s laughter,
and the aroma of wine is rich with kaisar, elachi, phudino,
and women in white flow like rivers in the passageway;
where wild fruit – pussi, peru, gedura, dounra
remind us of Marui, the patriotic one;
and in the desert, bhagats cup hands to their ears,
singing songs of Latif and Sachal.

But now, cunning politicians
use religion to harass us,
tell me that land is not mine,
and nothing there belongs to me.

Who can snatch away my right
to say Sindh is my birthplace?

BIRTHPLACE

Close

Birthplace

Where the branches of trees sway,
and roses, seeing their movement, blush . . .
where sweet-smelling breezes
murmur messages of love to leaves,
and the leaves laugh gently in delight:
that is the place where I was born.

Where nature – a nymph – teases wheat fields,
transforming them into a magical land;
where the river Sindhu welcomes us,
enchanting as Princess Moomal;
where ventilators on terraces
usher in cool south-west winds;
where pomegranate buds, bowers of grapes,
and the sweet smell of mogras embrace us –
Where otakoon resound with the menfolk’s laughter,
and the aroma of wine is rich with kaisar, elachi, phudino,
and women in white flow like rivers in the passageway;
where wild fruit – pussi, peru, gedura, dounra
remind us of Marui, the patriotic one;
and in the desert, bhagats cup hands to their ears,
singing songs of Latif and Sachal.

But now, cunning politicians
use religion to harass us,
tell me that land is not mine,
and nothing there belongs to me.

Who can snatch away my right
to say Sindh is my birthplace?

Birthplace

Where the branches of trees sway,
and roses, seeing their movement, blush . . .
where sweet-smelling breezes
murmur messages of love to leaves,
and the leaves laugh gently in delight:
that is the place where I was born.

Where nature – a nymph – teases wheat fields,
transforming them into a magical land;
where the river Sindhu welcomes us,
enchanting as Princess Moomal;
where ventilators on terraces
usher in cool south-west winds;
where pomegranate buds, bowers of grapes,
and the sweet smell of mogras embrace us –
Where otakoon resound with the menfolk’s laughter,
and the aroma of wine is rich with kaisar, elachi, phudino,
and women in white flow like rivers in the passageway;
where wild fruit – pussi, peru, gedura, dounra
remind us of Marui, the patriotic one;
and in the desert, bhagats cup hands to their ears,
singing songs of Latif and Sachal.

But now, cunning politicians
use religion to harass us,
tell me that land is not mine,
and nothing there belongs to me.

Who can snatch away my right
to say Sindh is my birthplace?
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère