These tanks, cannons, bombers, flame-throwers—

From where have you brought them? On whom are they turned?

Are they the gift of the land of Waris and Iqbal?

Arousing the flood of war in Nanak’s land,

You now rise to strike lightning on the house of Kabir!

.

Until yesterday you were slaves—so were we. 

The blood-washed season of freedom had come.

.

Dawn’s early breeze alone has stirred

But buds have not yet opened their eyes.

.

Laughter has not rippled across the lips of spring. 

How many stars in extinguished eyes, 

How many despondent flowers in hand 

Still thirst for colour and light?

.

What do we have except shared pain?

.

If only we could have cured our souls together, 

Grown the garden with our own hands; 

If only you had joined in our pain and we in yours,

We could then have celebrated a housewarming.

But the manner of your glance is different. 

.

Where are these staggering steps going? 

Where have you set out to test your sword? 

What you consider the border of the country 

Is the border of the heart and soul—our body:

Beautiful, sublime, sacred, youthful, pure. 

Its name is the paradise meadow of Kashmir,

The garden of Delhi and Punjab,

It is sometimes called Lucknow.

.

You cannot touch it with the lips of a sword.

Come forward respectfully—it is the land of Ghalib;

Come forward respectfully—it holds the grave of Mir,

The abodes of Nizam, Kaki, and Chishti!

Bow the heads of your swords in the presence of kindness!

Our heart holds companionship and love;

Our soul is restless for you.

Though reluctant to say so,

We have the answer for people of greed in our shining sword.

.

~~~

.

Over there is a brother, a sister, a relative,

A friend in conviviality,

A prison friend, a comrade on the gibbet,

Someone notorious in the lane of the beloved—a poet like me.

Their lips hold a smile of days past,

Their eyes the dreams of bygone times;

.

In their hearts the light of tomorrow’s hopes.

Those who seem strangers to us are our kin.

Here remains the circle of friends, the crowd of well-wishers;

Here, too, there is no dearth of lovers;

The proof: a history of thousands of years.

They stand with blossoming wound-flowers, hearts fired by memories of Hir’s land,

With minds flowing with thoughts of the Chenab, Jhelum, and Ravi rivers,

Between us a river of fire intervenes;

Oceans of blood, yours, ours,

High walls of black hatred—

With one glance we can bring them down.

We can forget all oppression,

We can embrace again.

But on one condition: Swords must be broken,

Blood-drenched garments must be wrung out.

Then neither you nor we will be strangers.

You should come, the rose gardens of Lahore in your arms,

We should come carrying the light of Benares’s mornings,

The freshness of the Himalayan breeze,

And then let us ask: Who is the enemy?

.12 September 1965

.

From: Pairāhan-i sharar (Garment of Fire), 1965. pp. 54 – 58

Kaun hai dushman is quoted in full in Urdu Poetry, 1935-1970