Procrastination

Poison is my blood,
Poison is my body,
Poison are my thoughts,
They hum around my mind like flies,
Poison is my food,
Hate, jealousy and pride
Are the plants of poison;
They grow in my fertile land,
As wild weeds grow unattended,
I make venomous
Everyone whom I touch.

My existence is contagious,
Why should I be afraid of poison,
Procrastinate in front of the potion,
Now I must have a drink,
For poison will cause no impairment to me.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Heart Whispered

The heart whispered,
After the intensity
Of the pangs would reduce,
I would write the verse;
After the bewildering horror
Of death would decrease,
I would write the verse:

The intensity
Of the pangs does not reduce;
The bewildering horror
Of death does not decrease.
The wailing, the bawling,
The crying, the mourning,
Do not let heartily sleep,
Do not let heartily weep.
Then after
Cheerful sleep and weeping deep,
I shall write the verse.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Bring Me Back First The Season To Write On Sand

These beautiful bracelets of Motia,
This Kagal, this henna,
Glassy bangles and a tray of red-roses,
Beautiful are the green Anchal and scarlet suit,
The same is sound of the mill,
The same is the crowed on the well
Village is the same, same are the rites,
Same are the old faces but bear new looks,
The same tale, the same promises,
The same fraudulent are the oaths,
O! My old well-wisher, it is all right,
But bring me back first the season to write on sand.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Enough, Enough,

Sounding sirens, roaring planes,
Parading men, thundering guns,
Rising mushroom, exploding bombs,
Launched missiles, advancing troops,
All are behind the human existence,
How long Mankind might exist,
On the Earth.

Think awhile,
Resting your head on the pillow,
When your engagements allow you,
And when worries do not linger around,
Pray to Almighty: It is enough, it is enough,
Now supply not the world with characters,
Merely with heads stuffed with straw.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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You Are My Dream

You are my dream!
I know dreams often
Turn into agony;
The warmth of smouldering desires
Adds colours to passions;
And thirst of pulsating moments,
Just for a few seconds
Sips dew from the rose-beds,
And fragrance surrounds the trees,
For a time being, fleetingly.
I am aware of...
Sand does not possess
Foot-prints of a traveller
For a long time,
Yet dreams are a comfort,
For a moment or two, I know it
But you are my dream.
You are my dream!

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Painted Figure

Look! Who stands forlorn,
Absorbed, staring into the vacancy,
Of spheres with tearful eyes,
That blur the whole world,
Making all hazy, foggy.

The waves of the perturbed ocean,
Touch her bare soft feet,
With the designs of Hina,
She seems combating,
In the perplexity of emotions,
Engrossed like a painted figure,
Or pedestalled statue,
Protests against the foul game,
Finding no harbouring resort,
Twisting the end of her Anchal,
Wishes her hasty departure.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Defeat

If separation is destined,
Why it is being delayed;
Let us go asunder
At the very moment,
You will close the eyes
At the very moment,
And I shall place my hand
Upon my heart,
And you will say to me,
Detached are the paths,
Asunder are the destinations;
But be patient! Be patient!
And listen to me my love,
If separation is destined,
Why it is being delayed,
We will perform it now,
We will depart very moment.

By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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You Forgot Me at Last

In the despised season,
In the dripping drops of blood,
Only awakens sadness.

I read somewhere
Or heard someone,
It happens that this sadness
Being indifferent and heedless
Nips all of sudden,
Delicate buds of memories.

Hearken!
My heart goes through a fear
Lest you should forget me,
Lest it should happen in such a season.
O! My love,
This was that I said to you,
But happened the same
You forgot me at last.

[...] Read more

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Thumping Sounds

Youth time dream like slipped away,
Sweet scented memories still lay,
In my mind, of childhood, of innocence.

My mother took me to the winding stream,
A slight far from the village,
To wash bed-sheets, clothes and clouts,
On the sloppy gray rocks.

Her work continued till evening,
In silence before the sun set,
Thumping sounds,
Mixed with the hooting of distant train,
Produced magical effects on the mind.
When I played on the sand,
And waded into cold clear water.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Smoke Is Rising From The Branch Of Olive

War
Is impending over our heads,
And Alla Din of Death,
Having the lamp in his hands,
Is waiting for a signal.

Smoke is rising
From the branch of olive,
To see the blind,
The useless,
And the heap of broken bodies,
Is the fate of our eyes.

I am seeding the flowers,
Life, freedom, and peace.
“Peace through war” is the game
Of weapon merchants,
The powers at war have brutal relation
With one another.

[...] Read more

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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