My dear, you must be complaining of my love
That your fond wishes have gone waste for me.
Have gone waste the sun fight and the shade
You with fond needle wove in handkerchiefs.
A poet though I have missed to read
The poetry of promise reflected in your eyes,
On my lips reserved for you, my dear,
Has dried the bitter and tasteless song of bread.
My adoration, my integrity are doubly wounded,
Wounded is your laughter as of linseed flowers;
They take me away, the enemies of your happiness,
Leaving behind the shameless rattle of handcuffs.
It is on your door only that my head bows,
Time and again I deride the prison door;
Only in my village do I live effaced,
But defy the rulers with relentless derision.
All my pain passes through the point of needle,
Ravaged is the peace of thoughts and of fields;
Those who marauded grace from the fields,
Have now become the enemies of your beauty.
I have seen wheat crop nourished on dew,
With modesty lurking in her eyes,
Sun light relaxing on the flowing water,
I have seen the moon kissing the sleepy trees.
I have seen fragrance chanting from wild flowers,
Seen the minting machine operating in cotton crops;
Seen the fodder crops changing hue chameleon like,
I have seen the evening descending on mustard crops.
My every joy is tied to the freedom of the crops,
Every peasant�s tale tells the story of your smile;
My fate is one with the fate of the changing time,
My tale is but the tale of the shining sword.
Bitterness has so hardened my face
That moon light gets scratched at its sight,
My life's bitterness holds for history
The position strong enough for people to revive.
Translated by Tejwant Singh Gill
.