Mahin Zia
Getting up early and preparing
breakfast,
Eating hardly, the day starts
Then sweeping through the courtyard
And watering and cleansing of the whole yard.
Then washing of clothes and drift of dishes.
Working with my mother. We start cooking.
I should soon get married, she is always thinking.
The day is passing, sun shifting its places.
Men and children coming home at lunch,
We eat and talk. Talking of how good is the meal.
In these long days, times of rest come.
We sleep until the sun lessens its harsh rays. We sleep our best.
Evening starts. Father goes to the little plot.
The plants his children,
Children play in the street. The only thing they wait for.
Girls of the house sit in front of the stove.
The preparation of the night meal.
They all think of creating taste and I try too.
Everyone is talking.
Talking of what neighbors do.
Talking never stops till the sky gets dark.
Darkness brings silence. Houses are locked.
We finish dinner. A little walk.
Coaches shifting to rooftops.
Stories and lullabies, we hear and cherish.
Parents talk of their childhood–golden times.
Lying on our coaches, we siblings imagine our future.
We want the time to pass quickly
And our dreams we should hold in our hands.
Facing the adorned sky, I always think: This will be life.
Like women around me, I will live.
Working as a housewife.
Like young girls, I will wait to get married.
Then I will strive to win everyone’s heart.
Then the coming of my first child.
With children, the wait for them to grow up.
With grown children, striving for their best future.
Like my own parents, I will continue to wait, strive
and maybe I will too remember the moments of past.
On my death bed, I will cry with pain.
Like old people, I will be praying for my last leaf to fall.
Like dead people, I will too, lost.