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Prem Sahil is a Punjabi/Hindi
poet having three collections in his credit namely Tape Hoye,
Lehar Lehar Sahil, Mitti De Sukhan ( Punjabi) and Dastak
Deta Suraj ( in Hindi)
This Ghetto can not be Lighted
The load of concrete is held
on her head, and on her waist
she carries an accident.
The fate of hard work
has been mortgaged to the affluence
since time immemorial.
the working woman's worn out shirt
has torn from the place of modesty.
The mansions' peals of laughter have
repeatedly tormented the heart of the slums.
" This ghetto can not be lighted,"
said the dark, and chortled.
Making of a poem
A poem
comes into form
as water seeps
from the rocks
as laying a spark
amidst hay
one puffs it to kindle fire
as clouds
form various images
as a dame
while combing her hair
makes a braid
or a bun of it
with utmost care.
A poem
comes into form
as it rains
rises the sun
sprouts a seed
buds a tree
blooms a flower
as a newly born
comes into power.
Countenance of Life
Active like a saw you are somewhere,
timber torn apart elsewhere.
The coursers of wisdom are racing to grasp
an image, identical to thirst, rambling in water
Are you the corn or the sound of its arrival?
Are you the knock at the door, or the door itself?
Don't you have any look-alike to prove your identity?
What countenance are you of? O life! Tell me.
The Lost Moments
I forget when I lost
the moments sucked from the mother's breasts
and gathered from her lap.
Till yesterday, the life
with me remained displeased.
With your arrival today my child,
I have embraced the meaning of life
and have piped my eye.
At the time of this reunion,
the odour of mother's milk, from your breath,
does come to me.
In my eyes have gushed
the moments which having gathered
from the mother's lap
I had lost while playing in the dust.
I Lost Your Address
Green wood smoulders
in my mind.
Several years elapsed
since any news of wellbeing came.
To whom should I go to inquire of ?
I lost your address.
You have gone abroad
and settled there for good.
When letter does not come,
nor does my hand reach,
the grapes are sour indeed.
May the crows' mothers die.
I lost your address.
Apart from Killing
Apart from killing
it is a different kind of killing
wherein the dying one
instead of dying
looks as if one were singing
as a bird in a cage often does.
My Wish
If you like to
keep me still in the cage
put me behind
the bars of this cosmos.
Before dying by eating
the grain
I wish to live by taking
a flight.
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