Ghazal by Nadia Anjuman Translated by Khizra Aslam

[mirmusing.livejournal.com]

From this cup of my lips comes a song;
It captures my singing soul, my song.

That in my words is the meaning of ecstasy,
That dies my happiness into grief, my song.

If you see that my eyes say a word,
Then take it as my forgetfulness, my song.

Do not ask of love, O it tells me of you;
My words of love speak of death, my song.

His hope, like flowers, I desire.
No drop of my eyes is enough, my song.

The daughter of this place sings qasida, a ghazal,
But what spoils her strange verses, my song?

O the gardener does not understand my happiness;
O do not ask for many looks of my youth, my song.

From this hands, these feet and words, it looks strange
That my name is written on the slate of this age, my song.

Nadia Anjuman Herawi (Nadja Anjoman) was a lovely, talented, brave (nay, heroic!) Afghani poet who died at the age of 25 under highly suspicious circumstances. What were her crimes? To be a woman and dare to be a poet? To speak her unmanacled mind freely?

To become an advocate and spokesperson for women like herself--women who loved literature so much they risked death by reading censored poets and writers right beneath the snoutlike noses of the Taliban? Ireland may have hurt Yeats into writing poetry, but Ireland didn't kill him for having the talent and audacity to be published.

And while it may not be possible to say Anjuman's position and stature as an acclaimed female Muslim poet directly, or even indirectly, brought about her death, the mere fact that such an eventuality seems plausible should give the world immediate pause, as in--stop and see where the hell we're heading!

To make matters worse, if such a thing is possible, the same Nadia Anjuman who survived the nightmare regime of the Taliban may have died by the hand of her own husband, himself a scholar and writer. Friends say her family was furious, believing that the publication of poetry by a woman about love and beauty had brought shame on it.