The river’s soul is slashed: its five fingers
Fractured and dammed with an imaginary border line. The wind
Crosses back and forth the ancient land, unhindered. The saint has departed.
Sweet Indus, flow gently, till I sing again.
The river bears no blood stains, partition papers,
Silk flags, passports, blue or green
Or other remains of dark midnights. The saint has departed.
And their successors, the drifting souls of the subcontinent,
Departed, have left only their words of wisdom.
By the lost waters of Sarswati, I sit down and weep . . .
Sweet Indus, flow gently till I sing again,
Sweet Indus, flow gently, for I tread a rough terrain.
I hear explosions in Pokharan
The split of the atoms, shock waves ripping the world apart.
Violent storms blow through the desert
Drowning villages and cities in the sand
While I stroll at Bandra bandstand
On a hot summer evening in Bombay
The desert shakes again, this time in Quetta
While I graze a cowherd in Baluchistan
Dust rises in the sky turning the day into night
And dry hot wind from the desert destroys
All the sunflowers from Peshawar to Kanyakumari.
But from time to time I hear talks of sunflowers
Being revived or of planting a new crop of a similar kind
Which will grow as fast and shine as bright.
O the sun shines bright in the desert
And there is no water
We drink only milk and eat only dessert
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