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Perveen Shakir 
Baidar Bakht, Translator
Leslie Lavigne, Translator
Translated from the Urdu by Baidar Bakht and Leslie Lavigne
Oh, you pitiable thing! The lowliest Of mammals! You rib-born, worn as a shoe! When your brother Would butterfly in the garden, Your flower-like hands Would carry a broomstick Taller than you. Holding the corner of your mother´s gown, You learnt so many household chores: Making cow-dung cakes, Cutting firewood, Mixing fodder for the cattle. But your mother Always kept the pat of butter For your brother´s bread And curry from last night. Eating leftovers And wearing rags, When you came to puberty, Your father hated you even more. He kept a close watch On all your movements, As if you would elope with someone At the first opportunity. The day you turned sixteen, One man unburdened his soul To the body of another. The sty and master changed, Your job remained the same, In fact, increased. Now, your duties included Humouring the breadwinner at night, as well; And becoming pregnant every year; And looking after the house Until just before giving birth. The husband´s job was up to bed, The rest assigned to you. What a job! No wages, no days off, No rituals of resignation. Even beasts of burden are permitted to rest On a burning afternoon In the shade of a tree. No such moment is there for you. The bypath of your life has no such tree. Alas! It seems your life Is the punishment for sins Committed in past lives. If you sell your body, You´re a prostitute. You trade your soul And are called a wife. For how long Will these insults be heaped upon you At the hands of time? For the sake of a morsel of bread, And a cup full of water, How long will you go on Sacrificing yourself?
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