My Maker, I'll Greet in Spring

Like Shahid*, I would die in the opulence of autumn, but, cold dispirits me

Pray! Lying under the sheets of freshly tilled soil, I wish not to look blue.

Come Spring and my heart is a slave, a devotee, charmed by its visage

Holding on to my musings, in its sorcerous arms, I desire to breathe my last.

In autumn, a numb feeble leaf of Chinar is all that adorns a grave

I have a thing for florets and wish to have three white lilies on mine.

Virgin dew will be my potion and in consort with the breeze shall I sway

On a moonlit spring night, I will pen a poem or may be yearn for my tribe.

Spring it is, my Lord! Shrouded in its colours, I’ll come to greet

Bright and dead, I will witness Your Splendour and embrace eternity! 

Mercy! If you pass by, picture my tomb not as a dwelling of dead

In spring not anything dies, below the greens a pink blossom will I be.

In spring, the withered bloom and the colourless salve their hues

So, in my death I will not wane and nor will I drop my tones.

For the truth is, I fancy to meet my Maker but, why I must die!

When I will, I wish to live my death in breezy springtime.

                                                                                     

(*Agha Shahid Ali is a celebrated American Kashmiri poet. Ref.: The Last Saffron)