The Congealed Dew
Though I move in the multitude,
0f men, women tall, thin, fat, small,
Yet find no breast or a shoulder,
To rest upon my head to shed tears,
Drops of molten pangs and sorrows,
Which make my heart too loathsome,
That always cries to slacken its load,
Borne since I was born to abode,
In the world where each rose,
Is surrounded by thorns,
And each pointed thorn bears,
The dew of congealed dry blood.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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We Since Age
We since ages have bent upon,
To make friends with scorpions and snakes,
But these limbs, muscles and network f veins
Have not gone through the agony of exercise.
We have not dug trenches since long,
And fastened stone on the bellies,
We have besieged our minds with iron-walls
In such a way as all waves are infertile.
We have sown nothing on our farms,
Only the crop of heads which is not our own too.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Calls From The World Across
My brother died
A few months ago,
When he was alive
He called me on my mobile
To share my worries
And my concerns,
His number was fed
In my cell
And his name appeared
On the screen;
Now he is no more
In this world,
The same SIM is being used
By his consort,
When she calls me,
It happens the same,
The deceased name emerges
On the display,
And I feel my brother
Calls me from the world across.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Poke Not The Ashes
How pride of the dreams
Shattered in a moment!
And how the bits bled the eyes!
Who placed,
The burning coals on the tray?
Who deserted,
These wrists of yours?
Who erased
The lines of hands?
Who inscribed the pang
Of separation on the forehead?
The descending fog will blow out
The lamps of lashes;
Ah! It is not a delightful fun
To poke the ashes.
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Folly
The fortunate make the choices well,
When chance and fate ring the bell,
And bring them to the moments of acceptance,
Their prayers are granted bounteously,
For the world and wealth, power and place.
Lost I the chance in frivolous demands,
Lust muffled my mind, suspended my sense,
Begged for a thing trash and rubbish,
Blackened my face, heart and hands,
Ah! Life is too short to compensate the folly.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Make a Search
Search in the world of eyes,
Yes those eyes,
Where your reflection lives,
Where the moon and the star shimmer,
Where flickers a real lamp of true love,
Beholding of which descends
Brilliance inward and out all around.
Search in the world of eyes,
Perhaps you might find the eyes,
But be heeded,
Lest in search of those eyes,
You should lose your own.
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Scent of Love
Who forgets tumbling gait of the bare feet,
With timid heart, holding breath in silence,
And meeting in the dark thick grove,
Our secrets only the moon did steal,
When together did eat the night meal.
The cool beams came filtering through
The dewy leaves brightening the face more,
Then whispered low the adjoining hearts,
Lest the scent of love should go astray,
To become the victim of slanderous tongues.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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In The Blanket
The night is waning, consuming itself,
All residents of the world,
Are latent, resting their heads
Upon the arms but here far away from her
I weep holding the hem of her recollections.
She might be sleeping unruffled,
Dishevelling hair upon her shoulders
Placing her head upon the beloved chest,
And snuggling in the blanket of someone.
Then why should I blubber sobbingly,
And languish and pine away for nothing.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Had There Been No Defeat
He said “Defeat is very deep
As deep as an ocean,
That who drowns into it,
He never emerges up,
So make conquest tradition of love.”
I said “No doubt it is a deep mystery,
But think a while,
If there had been no heart in the chest,
Where love would have been,
Had there been no defeat in life,
There would have been no existence
Of love in the world.”
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Ambitions
O! What has happened to you?
What are you doing?
Pay heed to my urge,
I have to do yet a lot of work,
I have to wed my daughters yet,
I have to see my sons as bride-grooms,
I have to send my mother on Haj,
I have to get built my house yet,
Why is there too hurriedness?
O! Friends,
Make them understand, for I crave,
Lift up sills from my grave.
Written by
Sheraz Akhtar Mughal
Translated by
Mhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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