The Snatchers
When I was a kid,
And at noon hungry,
My mother gave me
A bit of bread
And I ate moving
In the street only in a shirt,
And sometime went
To the farther end of the street
But the crows
Sitting on the surrounding walls
Or edges of the roofs dived
One of them snatched the piece
And other cawed on the walls,
Or in the trees or on the roofs.
I returned weeping and wailing
Clang to my mother,
Who wiped my tears
With a corner of her clout
And gave me an other,
Reprimanding that I should eat
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Let Me Talk To The Wind
Let me talk to the wind,
We have to tell the complaint,
That we nourished against her,
Often it knocks at the doors,
And disturbs our sleep,
Sometimes brings along from abroad
The news of arrival of the dear one,
But he comes not. It blows out
All quivering lamps of the lashes,
Sometimes awakens melody in the lute,
It mixes itself in the beats of heart-beats,
Sometimes it fells aged dried leaves,
It gives the birds a ride
By making them homeless.
Let me talk to the wind,
Look how it descends,
Pushes boats on the chest of the sea,
It blows from all directions around,
And with a caressing touch
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Iceland That Is Named Love
If you will have to go,
To the Iceland that is named Love
Take my memory along.
It is heard
That once there live a couple of swans,
They both governed each other’s heart,
Picked dreams descending into the eyes,
Wove the fabric of faithfulness with silky dialogues,
And renovated it on each day;
But what happened as the season changed,
They both flew on diverse directions,
It is heard
Since then they were not seen together.
The Iceland that is named Love,
If you will have to go there,
Please do visit the lonely tree,
Upon whose costume of the branches,
On every side the names of lovers are carved.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Speak A Bit Of That Moment
Speak a bit of that moment,
A moment that contains centuries,
A moment that halts time,
A moment when someone sees
A route leading beyond the cosmos.
Speak a bit of that moment
When water and clay mingle,
And in a moment of union,
Sprouts a bud of flower.
Speak a bit of that moment,
When eyes become a heart,
When heart becomes eyes,
A star of dream, a rain-bow
Dither on the lashes.
Speak a bit of that moment,
When the Sun places its fire
On the bank of a lake,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Builders
Who knows what loss do we meet,
When spend moments of the life spoilingly,
And lazily surfeit the mouth of lust,
Turning back to the pure deeds of purity,
The curtain was raised for moments a few,
And I was shown the toiling busy hands,
Whose movements are attached to our deeds,
And was led to the world of sandy soil,
Uneven humps stretched beyond the sight,
Plains unvegetated, or without forest green,
Neither light nor darkness prevailed the zone.
A region was specified for the work of construction,
The fresh dug earth laid long in heaps,
Along the trenches of foundations deep,
Some half erect buildings I did see,
The rooms roofless, the yards wide open,
With no walls around, confining the lawns.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Sermon
The forceful wings of ethereal self,
Made me fly to the sky,
Transported to the world higher,
Bigger, larger and wider than ours.
Placed I was amid the residences,
Thick, white all; high and small;
I strolled and strolled around,
In front of the big mosque I found,
A plain with myriads trees,
All green of the same size,
They seemed in order, stretched straight,
Extended in the long rows,
As million of soldiers stand still in formation,
And listen to the speech on the day of parade.
In the spacious hall of the mosque,
Squatted men in lines close,
Breathed deep with eyes shut,
As if they stroke upon the harp of heart.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Deformed Angel
Sometimes life gives us severe shock,
Undermines the plans and does block,
The ways of wisdom leading ahead,
Reveals the hands that secretly mock.
An artist thought to paint an angel,
To use the brush for the masterpiece,
But could not conceptualize the image,
Beauty combining innocence, purity.
One morn, at last, he luckily found,
A child playing on the grassy ground,
Having angelic countenance and grace,
Incarnation he was of sublime serenity.
Painted he the angel with skill utmost,
And earned he the world wide fame.
And he after three full fleeting decades,
Thought for the second master-sketch,
Now not of an angel, but of a devil.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Race
Thinking on the childish longings,
Makes me laugh and takes again,
To the golden age when I played,
With the boys of the same size and age,
All we often ran and raced,
To see the end of the ball of the Earth,
Or touch the bending horizon,
Too blue, too near, too clear,
And to attain crimson hue of twilight,
Ah! But returned,
Out of breath with empty hands.
When we played in the meadows green,
The wings of the Moon-soon winds,
Did bring on the plains of the Punjab,
Flocks of clouds thick and dark,
Drifted by shepherds with sticks unseen,
That seemed landing upon the pastures,
We ran and raced under or along,
To possess the lowering object in hands,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Bare Truth
Written By Sughra Sadaf
Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
Wilderness of your eyes,
Desertedness of your countenance,
From your physic, your structure
And repentance of my heart,
All are confessing altogether,
That it is a bare truth, we are faithless,
I tormented you, I made you weep,
And in response you remained loyal,
Ah! But I disregarded you.
My conscience: the voice of my hart,
Whispers that all rulers,
All despots, small and giant
Yes all made you weep,
They all will come back to you again,
They all who gamed with you,
Made you toy, now played then broke,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Transparent Waters
Begin thoughts scrub the surface,
Remove rust, wash the sable spots
Of eyes, of heart and of dark mind;
But the diabolic coat a layer upon a layer,
Impede lights, make us blind,
Though we claim to be the men of wisdom,
Yet we move in the canyon of obscurity.
Standing upon the top of an alien hill,
I beheld a lush green gorge,
Merging with serpentine bends,
Down below into the countless mounds.
All humps rose with moderate heights;
Below to the left on the turn first,
A tall tree with comb like leaves,
And extending branches enchanted my soul.
Upward to the right behind the top,
An ocean of the subtle transparent waters,
With no crease, no ridges or dancing waves,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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