(When a poet dies in Pakistan, friends often hold a condolence
meeting to pass a resolution affirming that the poet was
a Godfearing patriot mistakenly persecuted by the authorities.)

When I am dead, my friends, spare me the pain
Do not give me a testimonial of faith.
Do not declare, in passionate orations,
'This woman was indeed a true believer.'
Do not seek to prove me loyal, my friends,
To the state, the nation
And the powers-that-be.
Do not beg the lords of the land
To claim me at my death.

The taunts of the mean were laurels to me;
The wind and the dust were my soul mates.
The deepest truth lies far within the soul
And those who shared it were my friends.
Mounting a pulpit was not their way,
But they stood tall for me and held my hand.
You must not show them disrespect
Or try to ingratiate me with the judges.
Never say, 'Her corpse seeks forgiveness.'

Don't be distressed if I am left unburied
If the priest denies me the final rites.
Carry the remains to the woods and leave it there.
It comforts me to think that the beasts would feast
At my bones, my flesh, this strong red heart,
They would feel no need to screen my thoughts.

Their bellies filled, they'll clean their paws
And their sinless eyes will gleam with a truth
That you, my friends, dare never express:
'She always said what she had to say,
And for all her life had no regrets.'

Translated by Patricia L. Sharpe