To People

I love the vault of stars above,
The earth so broad, so long,
The flat field, the humped hills I love,
The forest and its song.
And I love life, and folk, indeed,
The forms their souls imply,
I love to braid from hopes a wreath,
But I’m no poet. Why?
Some days my work keeps on the boil,
I slave away my time,
Until my shoulders creak with toil…
Your heart will hear the chime,
You catch at one sound, you catch twain,
And more and more they throng,
Until they merge in one great train,
Ringing the whole day long.
The day is burned out. Home I go,
Off to bed. But at night
The lines of ringing notes still flow.
Sleep departs. Then I write.
Before my eyes in a great pack
The images swarm free.
And someone stands behind my back,
It seems, so close to me.
A pair of arms my neck entwine,
The silk of a girl’s braids,
The heart beats stronger, and the chime
In the soul does not fade…

I look: the room is empty quite…
Time, like a snake, slid by,
Beyond the window fades the night…
But I’m no poet… Why?

Because time eats my impetus,
Freedom comes rare and hard.
Poets like this abound with us,
The nation is a bard.
Here I have simply penned a mere
Fistful of my sad strains;
Sadness of my soul for my dear
Country sang their refrains.
And I’ll say yet for what I long:
To hear a girl’s voice chime
In at least one of my poor songs,
At least a single time.

A.Harun