"Oh, motherland,
I’ll return:
Ah, that day is in my hand’s reach."
Firm resolve, forceful utterances;
Yet thorns of memories tore his heart.
A stir, a rustle of murmur;
The leisurely gathering raised eyes towards him.
"No hut to roost,
No plot to till;
A wandering minstrel
A stranger everywhere,
All lands alien,
None offers shelter.
Oh, Motherland,
I’ll return :
Ah, that day is in my hand’s reach :"
The bellowing song sparkled a dream,
He danced with renewed vigiour.
Dust rose in hot wind
While the heaving Earth
Buried her face in sands.
The Magician of Day, who
Made mirages in the deserts
From the fusion of the burning sun,
Had retired. Out from
The dark caves of night
Truth grinned weird and ghastly
To send shocks through the refugees
The brooks and grooves of their Motherland
Rushed in to their memory’s dreams.
"In the veinyards of Persia,
Across the steppes in Russia,
Over the Alps,
Under forest shades,
Along banks of the Danube
I wander for generations.
My legs will not break,
My heart will not pant,
The sweet dream of my motherland will not fade,
The wind burns through my veins.
Dear, aren’t you hearing
The blow of the flute?
The very melody that will revive old memories:
The song that generations listened,
The sweet dreams nursed in their bosoms
Through successive births and deaths:
The song that awakens sad memories
Of how drawn into whirpools
Of the flood of invading armies
That had inundated the fields of Punjab
Where rivers from different founts
Mege together and flow forth,
Oh, Motherland,
I’ll return:
Ah, that day is in my hand’s reach!"
The gypsy continued his dance
Memories were tended back and
The Elusive Deer was grazing
On the bank of the Jamuna;
While in the refugee camp
The deep signs of the Palestinians
Vainly searched the land of their dreams.
(Image: Painting depicting gypsies. Source: Wikimedia)