Zeb Ghauri (1928–1985)

All outlines are lost, all sights, all landscapes and me
They’re one again – the sky, sea, shore, and me

A secret word being a mirror to the heart
A haze spread from scene to scene, and me

As the maiden wind teases when it passes on
But silent for so long are the deep sea, and me

How well known they are to each other, Zeb!
Those coconut trees, these stones on shore, and me

Continue reading “Ghazal”


Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)
Faust, First Part

“You can’t, if you can’t feel it, if it never
Rises from the soul, and sways
The heart of every single hearer,
With deepest power, in simple ways.
You’ll sit forever, gluing things together,
Cooking up a stew from other’s scraps,
Blowing on a miserable fire,
Made from your heap of dying ash.
Let apes and children praise your art,
If their admiration’s to your taste,
But you’ll never speak from heart to heart,
Unless it rises up from your heart’s space.”


Anton Pavlovich Chekhov (1860–1904)

AZEMSTVO HOSPITAL. In the absence of the doctor, who has gone off to get married, the patients are received by his assistant, the feldscher Kuryatin, a stout man of about forty, whose face wears an expression of amiability and a sense of duty. He is dressed in a shabby pongee jacket, frayed woolen trousers, and between the index and middle fingers of his left hand carries a cigar that gives off a stench.

Continue reading “Surgery”