In our Insecurity, by Pash

paash

If the security of the land
calls for a life without conscience
To imagine a word other than ‘yes’ is an obscenity
And the mind bends low before the lecherous times
then the security of the land is a threat to us

If the security of the land means
that every strike crushed makes that peace stronger
Martyrdom is no more than death at the borders
Art blooms only at the palace window
Intellect only drives the waterwheel that irrigates the ruler’s crops
Labour is little more than a broom at the palace door
then the security of the land is a threat to us

Pash was the pseudonym of Naxalite poet Avtar Singh Sandhu, assassinated in 1988.

To those born later

I
Truly I live in dark times!
Frank speech is naïve. A smooth forehead
Suggests insensitivity. The man who laughs
Has simply not yet heard
The terrible news.

What kind of times are these, when
To talk about trees is almost a crime
Because it implies silence about so many horrors?
When the man over there calmly crossing the street
Is already perhaps beyond the reach of his friends 10
Who are in need?

It’s true that I still earn my daily bread
But, believe me, that’s only an accident. Nothing
I do gives me the right to eat my fill.
By chance I’ve been spared. (If my luck breaks, I’m lost.)

They say to me: Eat and drink! Be glad you have it!
But how can I eat and drink if I snatch what I eat
From the starving
And my glass of water belongs to someone dying of thirst?
And yet I eat and drink. 20

I would also like to be wise.
In the old books it says what wisdom is:
To shun the strife of the world and to live out
Your brief time without fear
Also to get along without violence
To return good for evil
Not to fulfill your desires but to forget them
Is accounted wise.
All this I cannot do.
Truly, I live in dark times. 30

II
I came to the cities in a time of disorder
When hunger reigned.
I came among men in a time of revolt
And I rebelled with them.
So passed my time
Given me to on earth.

I ate my food between battles
I lay down to sleep among murderers

Bertolt Brecht