On The 2nd Anniversary of Benazir
O! Great lady you performed
Your role contributing heroically,
But you died an engineered death.
The dynamite placed deeper
Than your strategies has blown up
Your missions and bold existence.
Though death is inevitable,
Sooner or later each one of us
Will have to taste the tang of death,
Yet you lived your life
With vigorous soul,
Brimming with emotions.
Now you live into the world across
Where from no one returns;
We all miss you a lot,
Our eyes are heavy,
They are still carrying
The load of unshed tears.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Magnetic Force
With the Baraat we went amid the pipes,
Peeling forth the sounds casting magic,
And rhythmic beats of the drum beaters,
Did lead us to the fairy world of negation;
Where from a man can behold the truth,
Luminous clear from distance very close.
Hobby horse would no doubt amuse us all,
That led the procession alluringly colourful,
And dancing, jumping kicked each passerby.
In streets of the village on both the sides,
The damsels clad in the new gaudy dresses,
Stood smilingly with overspreading shyness;
Holding the glasses of sugared milk warm,
They giggled, they chattered and chuckled,
The words dropped from their delicate lips,
As the dewdrops from the moisty petals fall.
Then we were received, feasted like guests,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Nine Eleven
What deed did you do? What gain did you gain?
O! The sons Cain, the sons of Cain, the sons of Cain.
Why did you cause on the earth perpetual pain?
O! The sons Cain, the sons of Cain, the sons of Cain.
Why did you push humanity into the dismal zone?
Whom did you obey? What goals were you shown?
Alas! You would have the palpitating human hearts,
And have imagined the cumbersome gagging groan.
Who educated you with so-called divine education?
Who infused in your blood, and heart’s palpitation,
The poison, the venom, the fire and bursting flames;
That you wreaked vengeance on Adam’s generation.
You crashed; you stroke planes in the back of Towers,
Only to be known, the suiciders, the killers of flowers,
Would that! You were trained, you were only taught;
How to exert influence of love with wholesome powers.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An Ode To The Detached Leaves
Ah! The blows of autumnal wind,
Cold and callous, have encroached at last,
They have made the leaves their victims.
Look! they fall like drops of rain,
Bearing no strength of their own.
They move with the gushes of wind,
Without their own consent,
They oscillate on the wings of some invisible agents,
Who possess the secret powers,
To dispose what one proposes.
I recall once they were attached hard,
To the branches and boughs of the shadowy trees;
And sap ran into their veins,
As blood runs into the human network;
And they fluttered resisting each coldhearted gust.
They were resolute to go through each ebb and flow,
Establishing firm relations to the nourishing limbs.
And Mother Nature came stealthily to give them wash,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Carbonized Steaks
More significant than the rise and fall,
More important than the historic events,
More woeful than pathetic deaths,
May we find occurring around us,
Unheeded, though trivial to the minds,
Yet gruesome to the unsealed eyeing hearts.
Once aimless loitering through the forest,
Brought me to the blazing smoky spot,
Where wild flames were leaping up,
Encircling patches of the withering grass,
And barky beds of dry palm needles.
My eyes captured a sight too horrible,
A tragedy performed away from the stage,
Beyond the sight of human busy eyes,
With no audience to applaud the struggle,
Or grieve at unjust agonizing infliction.
A black partridge was fighting in panic,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Fall of Dhaka
When we all were small girls and boys,
And played with dolls, and ball like toys,
Were often asked to drift and lead the cattle;
To the nearby meadows, farms and forest,
To have them grazed from morn to eve,
And freshened them with the water clean.
We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Letting them loose sat on top of the mound,
Among the old reverend shepherds,
Who told us the tales of olden times;
Ups and downs of the world they had seen,
How they fought the World War Second,
How they did see the roaring fighter jets;
How the rumbling sounds of the shells,
Did resound and reverberate in the valleys,
How they did watch meadows, fields and farms,
Littered with the human blood flesh and shreds,
How the two shining glaring cities of Japan,
Were obliterated casting perpetual horror.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Black Roses
Yesterday morn we blossomed,
With the brave show of colours,
And shades dark, deep and dim,
Combined with fresh tenderness;
In long rows along the highway,
The vehicles passed by swishing,
No one stopped to praise the petals,
To compare to the fairness of the face,
And delicacy of the beloved’s lips.
Our fate is worse than the primrose,
Unheeded, whose petals wither unseen,
And die unpraised in the deep thick,
Forest, beside the glimmering stream,
Or tripling, dancing water of the fountain.
We breathed the air smoky and smelly too,
Poisoned with the contents of carbon,
Black, unpurified water was sprinkled,
To take, adulterated and impure light,
Through hazy spheres came upon us.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Grave Of My Brother
The spot where now I sand was empty,
Undisturbed for the years, only tufts of grass swayed,
But now filled in with a heap of fresh dug earth:
The grave of my brother.
The memories of the past have begun to emerge
As panic fishes come out upon the surface of the sea.
We slept on the same bed for a decade,
We played in the same yard together
Through the years of childhood,
We played hide and seek, ran after the butterflies,
Yes, together in the mustard farms,
We ran through the streets while monsoon rains rained,
We stood under the spouts to have the most delicious bath.
O! Brother you explained to me
The mysteries with the childish wisdom,
“The stars are the shinning rivets,
The moon and the sun: the loaves of gold and silver,
And twilight the crimson particles of dust.”
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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My Dear People
How long my dear people,
How long we shall sprinkle essence of rose,
And smoulder fragrant contents.
How long we shall burn grates of hatred,
And how long we shall pour down
The rain of blood,
How long we shall light up lamp on the graves,
How long we shall strew flowers
On the graves of friends,
How long we shall make graves of our kids,
And how long we shall bury our bodies alive.
Now my dear people, my own people,
We shall not contrive ditches,
In the upcoming days;
We shall not extinguish our existence,
And our faces radiant like candles,
We shall not erase glowing names carved
On entrance of the heart,
We shall not en-kindle such lamps
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Song of the Lost Generations
A swarm of the birds came down,
Passed by caressing water.
O age!
O age of the caravans!
In search of what you passed over
The waters of centuries,
The arriving and departing springs
Came and went off what for,
And what for the evening
Through spaces passed away
Sinking in blood; and we passed away
From our lives what for.
In persuasion of what the dew drops,
Settled on the trees,
After the leaves had fallen apart.
The dew fell upon the desert,
By and by but dissipated in an instant.
The life of stars,
The whole life of all objects,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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