Fazal Baloch

One of the finest contemporary Balochi poets, Munir Momin is widely revered for his sublime art of poetry.

Meticulously crafted images, fresh metaphors, linguistic finesse and his profound aesthetic sense earned him a distinguished place in Balochi literature. His poetry speaks through images, more than words. Hardly, any contemporary Balochi poet has ever employed images so beautifully as Munir Momin has done with such ease.

In the early days of his poetry his language was more complex and laced with intricacies that rendered his thoughts a tad vague and indistinct. However, with the course of time, it evolves and become inimitably simple.

Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political moment. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life. Immenseness of his imagination and his mastery over language rescued his poetry from becoming the part of any mundane narrative.

So far Momin has published six collections of his poetry. They include Nigaah-e-Baatin-e-Safar, Daryaa Chankey Hoshaam Inth, Istaal Shapaada Gardanth, Paas Janaan Inth Darwaazag, Bicheeley Azmaan and Payaapein Lachchahy Paththo. The latter is the collection of his prose poems.

Momin divides his time between Pasni and Gwadar Balochistan. He also edits a literary journal Gidár.

Momin’s poetry flows far beyond the reach of any ideology or socio-political moment. Nevertheless, he is not ignorant of the stark realities of life


The Earth & the Sea

The sea,

A scrawled evidence of sails

And the earth

A song chanted by the wind

On the wedding of trees.

Every night

You stay awake hopping for the moment

When the wind falls asleep

And you’d turn all your yearnings into a bird

And let it fly.

To decipher the script of my thirst,

I’ve gulped down the flames of my lamps.

But I know,

The moment the sails come out of their slumber,

The sea will banish all its waves.

You know as well

The earth begins right from the spot

Where tired birds end their flight.

In the Middle of a Tryst

In the void of our separation

A day can break

A night can sleep

A city can rest

A dream can bloom

But this solitude, which is a sleeping soldier,

Would vanquish like the sadness over a snuffed-out lamp

Far from the threshold of our hope

Someone’s imagination sprouts fireflies

Where wind plays with pearls

And moon is a drop of honey

But in a farther premonition

The entire world is a dead street

Neither you exist nor I

Neither a day nor a night

Neither any memory of the moon nor a dead firefly

Not even an encounter in the darkness

Not even a lament over a broken promise

In the void of our separation

There was a bird that flew away

In the void of our separation

There was a needle

Got lost.


You are Beautiful

You are beautiful

Than every elusive moment of happiness

Than every hour of unrelenting grief

You are beautiful

Than the stained robe of the night

Than the sacredness of dawn

You are beautiful

Than the truth

That is the climax of all desires

Than the lamp that has drifted off in night-streets

And can’t make it back to the day

You are beautiful

Than the lie

Every day, I fabricate and unfold to myself

In the name of your love

You are beautiful

Than me, than my hope

You are beautiful

Than yourself,

Than your beauty.


The writer is a lecturer at the Government Atta Shad Degree College and can be reached at [email protected]


Published in Daily Times

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