Kishwar Naheed, who turned 80 last June, is one of the greatest Urdu poets of the 20th century. She symbolises feminism itself for the valiant women of South Asia in general, and Pakistan in particular. Despite turning 80, and being diagnosed with COVID-19 soon after reaching the landmark, she continues to dazzle with one poetic collection after another. Therefore, it was a privilege to read her latest collection of poetry, titled Darya Ki Tishnagi (The Thirst of the River, Sang-e-Meel Publications, 2020), published just last week.Darya Ki TishnagiKishwar NaheedSang-e-Meel Publications, December 2020Many of the poems in this slim volume deal with the ravages of COVID-19, but none more so than the last poem in the collection titled ‘Do Hazar Bees Ka Alamiya: Teesri Duniya Mein‘ (The Tragedy of 2020: In the Third World) where she masterfully contrasts the ravages of COVID-19 in the West and the global South, and the eternal contest between hope and despair.Naheed, of course, is on the side of the poor and underprivileged, and her acerbic but empathetic pen does not fail to note that it is in Pakistan that exorbitant amounts of wealth are being displayed, but at the same time there is the poverty of life. Her frequent refrain – ‘Kisi Ke Saamne Haath Nahi Phailaa Sakte’ – is not only a comment on the poverty but a critique of the so-called self-respect of middle-class and indigent families, which does not let them approach other kindred spirits for solidarity and sustenance in bad times. Our poet is forced to admit at the end:‘Karona badh raha haiInsaniyat mar rahi haiSaal guzar chuka hai!’The poem is being presented in my humble original English translation on the occasion of New Year’s Day today in the hope that it will stimulate and provoke us to take stock of 2020 and the hope that 2021 may bring.(This year CoronaHas trampled upon every economyNeither is there a street vendor nor a bar that is occupiedTo leave home out of compulsion is allowedBut when there is no work or dutyWhy come out unnecessarilyIn Europe people standing in the balconyAre playing the guitars merrily.In countries like oursWhether it is the media or the mosque sermonsAll of them are agents of terror.“Do not touch anybodyKeep social distancing”Despite all this prohibitionEvery evening kebabs are skewered in preparationEvery morning pooris and parathas being made for consumptionEvery day from homes and hospitalsHundreds of funerals rise in lamentationWeddings, birthdays, offeringsGo on with abandon.The middle class selling its carsHas started riding bicyclesDearness too is spreading like CoronaPeople in the whole worldAre asked to work from homesThese are those lands where electricity and other privileges are availableIn countries like ours people wearing masksCarry lunch in hand like railway workers’ tasksChildren remaining in their homes do pleadFor something or the other to fulfil their needAll the saved rice, flour, treacleEven after using little by littleLooking at the empty boxesThey cannot beg before anybodyCannot even ask for a matchstickHow to amuse the children crying in the courtyardsThe man with the crisp rice and the monkey showToo does not come in the street anymoreThe husband and wife are sick of each otherWhile settling the home accountsFight with each otherThey cannot beg before anybodyThe aged father and mother locked up at homeAre afflicted with dementiaThey say something with a screamBeyond understanding’s realm.Listening to the media, one feels asphyxiationAll countries are covered in the dust of humiliation.But within the same yearThe world’s most expensive carIs bought in PakistanAnd in a wedding conducted in old ageThe groom arrives with one kilo of goldOver there families are being brokenTo lift and bury the corpsesOne cannot find four people.Melodies of union and songs of separationInstead of malhaar in homes there is lamentationA wall stands joined with a wallBut even to talk to a neighbourIs to be in fear’s thrallLest they borrow somethingA long line of people buried worldwideSeems like the Great Wall of ChinaWhen seen from a planeThe folks of the old peoples’ homes verilyHave passed away silentlySuicides have risen heavilyFunerals too are rising graduallyBut the times of rush are ascending quicklyIn Western countries the Red CrossIs distributing ration among people standing in a lineThe tradition of poor countriesThey cannot beg before anybody.In the West, people eat food from the dustbinIn the East, holding the head highIs indeed the culture, the tradition.Corona is advancingHumanity is dyingThe year has passed!)Raza Naeem is a Pakistani social scientist, book critic and award-winning translator and dramatic reader, currently based in Lahore, where he is also the president of the Progressive Writers Association. He can be reached at razanaeem@hotmail.com.