Once upon a time there was a Yellow bus. Yellow bus was very fast, but there was a Red car which was faster. One day, Red car challenged yellow bus for a race. They decided to race from Dallas to Houston. It was the longest race ever. All the cars gathered around the highway. Referee said 1, 2, 3, Go! Yellow bus goes zoom zoom. But red car goes zoom zoom zooooom. And Red car was faster and it was winning. After a while Red car looked in its rearview mirror and didn’t see Yellow bus at all. Red car’s engine was overheating, and it was running low on gas. Up ahead was a gas station. Red car decided to pull into gas station to refill gas and and cool down the engine in a shade. While resting in the shade, it fell asleep. Yellow bus, however, didn’t stop. It kept going and going until it crossed the finish line. Red car woke up and realized, it slept for too long. It raced to finish line but Yellow bus had already won the race. Red car was surprised and asked how did you not take a break, Yellow bus said by going fast but not too fast. They laughed and then went to eat ice cream. Moral of story, go fast but not too fast.

…

Mirza Ghalib was the one of the greatest Urdu poet from 19th century. I translated this poem for a school project.

I look at the joys of this world, as I look at the dust.



Crying used to give me pleasure but now my eyes have gone dry.



When I am dead, wind might take my dust to my destination.



Because now I have no more strength to continue.



For whom are these preparations of welcome, who is this lover from the heaven?



All I see is flowers, and nothing else.



My love has left me capable of nothing.



Now I just wish to live quietly somewhere.



Asad, my poetry is for times past.



It is useless to write, when no one understands.<br />

…

Who is that is I



Still lost in my mind.



Trying to find my purpose,



When there might not be one.



The first thing was writing



Can words truly change anything?



Why should I write,



When there is so much noise



Are you in that house,



Or are you out here.



I will give up now,



This desert is just too vast.



My voice will not reach you,



Is this even a language.



What is music when there is no rhythm.



Why should I write,



When I have nothing to say.

Wrote this poem long time ago, it seems it is still applicable.

…

Stop crying, this is just the beginning of love.



Hold on and see what will be next.



In the morning, there were voices in the caravan.



Let's move on and let the sleeper sleep.



On this ground nothing can grow.



Please stop planting seeds of hopes in your heart.



These are marks of true love, they remain forever.



It is not possible to wash them away from your heart.



Time was more important than anything else in my life.



And Mir, I wasted my time foolishly.<br />

This was another college project, I translated this poem by Mir Taqi Mir.

…

It was a school or temple, or was it Makkah or a church.
We were all guests, only you were the host.



Oh! How sad it is. I found just before death.
It was only a dream, what I saw. It was only a fairy tale, what I heard.



How sad it is that autumn is in the garden.
There was some grass, which was my friend.



This place is getting chaotic with all these people coming and going.
My heart used to be the place for your peace.



It is useless to remember them, try to be happy.
Dard, it is not important if they remember me or not.<br />

Mir Dard was a sufi poet from India. I translated this poem for college project.

…

You are neither for earth nor for the heavens.

The world is for you; you are not for the world.

This garden is the place for pain and prayer.

Not for picking flowers or building a nest.

How long will you stay in the rivers of Ravi, Nile, and Farat?

Your ship was built for infinite oceans.

It was nothing, what we have exaggerated.

We made it more, just for our fantasies.

…

O my friend, a heart does not need hate. All love good but do not even hate bad. Who does not want the softness of flowers? But do not be afraid of sharpness of thorns. There is same blood in the veins of the thorn. It is brought up by same evening breeze of the spring.

Do not throw away dying flowers. Yesterday, they were the glamor of the garden. Once they were also part of the world of perfumes. O passerby! Do not kick dust on their leaves. Though they are no longer in the feast. They were raised in the laps of same morning breeze.

…

Feeling so empty, and hollow inside, Cannot believe I am writing a poem to a cigarette, but I feel so unsatisfied, unfulfilled, like this poem, half-finished.

…

In this hot desert heat,

you were a cool breeze

gone in a moment just as you came,

left me behind to wonder if you will ever return

to mess up my hair,

to touch my thirsty lips softly

you were a sweet dream,

vanished with the stars in the morning

leaving me to wake up in the blinding sunlight,

to look for a shade where there are no trees

…

This poem was written by my favorite poet Allama Iqbal. I translated it for my English class during my freshman year.

“The view up here is the same as ever.

We are tired of shining and shining.

Our work is to walk, day and night.

Walk and walk and walk forever.

Everything in this universe is anxious.

Peace, whatever it is, does not exist.

Everything is being tortured by time.

…