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Perveen Shakir 
Baidar Bakht, Translator
Leslie Lavigne, Translator
Translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne
In our country, A woman who writes poetry, Is eyed as an odd fish. Every man presumes That in her poems He is the issue addressed! And since it is not so, He becomes her foe. In this sense, Sara didn´t make many enemies. She didn´t believe in giving explanations. Before she could become the wife of a poor writer, She had already become The sister-in-law of the whole town. Even the lowliest of them Claimed to have slept with her! All day long, Jobless intellectuals of the city Buzzed around her. Even those who had jobs, Would leave their their stinking files and worn out wives To come to her, Leaving behind the electricity bill, And the children´s school fees and wife´s medicine. For these are the concerns Of lesser mortals. Morning through late night, Heated discussions would take place On literature, philosophy and current affairs. When hunger knocked in at their empty stomachs, Bread and boiled pulse Would be bought collectively. Great thinkers, Would then demand tea Declaring her the Amrita Preetam of Pakistan. Sara, the gullible, Would be very pleased with herself. Perhaps, there were some reasons for it. Those who were responsible for supporting her, Always fed her on Kafka coffee And Neruda biscuits. Because of saliva-soaked compliments, At least, she could have one meal, Everyday! But for how long? She had to free herself From the clutches of wolves. Sara preferred to leave the jungle itself. As long as she lived, The connoisseurs of Art Kept nibbling her. In their circle, She is still considered delicious, But with a difference: They no longer can take a bite of her! After her death, She had been elevated To the status of Tomato Ketchup!
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