If I Were The King
If I were the king,
I would do nothing unusual,
Repeating the same old practice;
I would discard, set aside all bodies,
Even remotely linked to the name of law.
I would not allow anyone to share my office,
My powers and my authorities.
I would ride on the back of my nation,
For the long time against her consent,
Like a child as it rides the wooden horse,
And on finding it static drags the structure.
I would prod my fingers into the porches of my ears,
Lest any cry, shriek or sound should intervene,
My lascivious activities.
I would distribute all prominent high places,
Among my dear ones and hired villains of the state,
I would summon all beauteous pieces in the court,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Second Day
I went through
This busy bazaar
Yesterday;
Here sat a man
With the wares of bangles,
And fake ornaments,
Who chanted with a melodious sound,
Echoing, mingling,
Into the evening gale,
And around him sat some damsels,
With overflowing emotions,
Selecting the ornaments
Trying them on fingers,
And delicate wrists.
There sat an old man:
A fruit-vendor selling oranges,
And claiming them the rarest in the land.
I can recall the beheld smile on his face,
And shine in the eyes.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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To the Banyan Tree
“Oh! Overshadowing, evergreen Banyan,
Where have gone my vivacious playmates,
Who climbed up your reverend shoulders,
Clambered down by lowering, lurking roots?
And while playing they the run-and-catch,
Did hide themselves in the leafy boughs,
Mimicked the cuckoo in voice and tone.”
“Oh! Where have gone the contestants?
Playing cards sitting in the circles,
Patting hard upon the cards thrown,
Challenged with hope to win the game,
Pleasure they had, is unknown to the kings,
On the conquest of the distant continent,
Possessing oil-fields, fertile watery plains.”
“Oh! Where have gone the colourful damsels,
That swung ere the moon-soon winds blew,
Behind their necks fluttering Anchals1 flew,
Like the wings of hovering butterflies?
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Real Game
Uninvited frequent gluttonous guest,
Visited and picked up one by one,
The elder and younger of the family,
Making each time the house desolate.
When I was hardly three years old,
And nothing about painful death was told,
Played carefree with half dressed friends,
And ran around the big tree of acacia,
Staining with dust, mud and water dirty,
Made filthy my legs and arms, feet and face,
My grandmother would then give me a bath,
And I did weep, cryingly protested against,
The act of washing, making me neat.
She then mopped my body, wiped my eyes,
Doting upon me, she caressed my cheeks,
Embracing me she would often warm,
Titillate with the fingers frail and old,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The World
The world is an apt wide moving market,
Around a huge enormous shining globe,
That makes the trade smooth and plain,
Brightens its stalls, shops and taverns,
Casting dark shades on the opposite zones.
Whereas we all men and women,
Are either sellers or customers.
Who often forget the route of return.
In the mazy perplexing streets,
Crowded with men and women of commerce,
Whose rash overhasty movements,
Result in collisions wounding one another,
Bleed, sweat along the busy streets,
The indifferent passers pass by callously,
Jeering at the blood welling out.
All trifles sell on the rates high,
But it is pity how cheap is man’s life,
Character, honour the precious items,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Stranger In The City Of Spell
In the dusty mirrors of centuries,
Who are these murky shadowed people?
Someone should resolve,
To me what the reality of Time is,
And what is the reality of Death,
What is the existence of colours and sounds?
What is this grief,
And remembrance of the departed ones?
In the dusty mirrors of centuries
Who are these murky shadowed people?
What is this lobbing echoing jingle
Of infinity in the rimless dome?
If edging boundary of the desert is actuality,
What is a mirage of the middle of wilderness?
If these reveries are life,
What is reflection of the city of dream
Visible day and night
On the undulating waves of blood?
What is the rite of lands that forms
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Shield
At how many spots, at the moment same,
A reverend man subservient to God,
Is present, is a puzzling thing of wonder.
On the remote plain of the distant recesses,
I beheld the sphere of dancing beauties,
Far above, in hundreds were the groups of stars,
All in formation, not a single one alone,
They glistened like scattered heaps of diamonds.
Told was I, those were the seats of devotees,
Around the masters’ residencies.
Then I to the west turned my gaze,
Saw the rockless numerous mounds,
Dotted with low shrubs and cypresses green,
With pink-yellow mist descending upon,
Dim light was perceptible but with no source.
To the south-east I found a plain,
Vast and even, covered with fluffy grass,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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October 2005
(The Earthquake in Pakistan)
The massive blunders evoke the massive waves,
Of wrath that push the inhabitants to the graves;
The faults of kings fall upon the heads of subjects,
The cottages and the palaces, their ferocity raves.
Ah! What a horrible devastation eyes have seen,
The sepulchral cries shook the spheres between,
The earth, and sky; the nation has no stock of tears,
To make the pangs wash, to make the breasts clean.
The villages, the towns, the cities have been raved,
Preyed upon; ravaged and razed as the Will craved,
They have become an extended theatre of tragedies,
Time differs not, ripe or unripe, paved or unpaved.
The valleys, the green slopes and the rising peaks,
Where upon the life laughed with the shining cheeks,
And smiled with the sweet curves upon the rosy lips,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Declined Desire
Death dies herself and does not damage
Those who advance ahead underailed,
Following the prints of the wise pioneers
Whom He imparts the secrets of wisdom.
At downward dive heart beats thumpingly,
And aches as one feels on an oscillating swing
With long ropes when moves to and fro
Between two extremes with hissing moves,
Fearing lest one should crash to fragments.
I landed upon the world underworld,
Before the sunrise, in the moment of morn,
And roved about the too simple mosque
With open lawn and low boundary walls.
Entering through the gateless entrance,
I sat on the ground, gazed at the outer setting.
A slight afar flowed and winding river,
The lush green bushes stooped along,
The banks and brims of the serpentine track.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Clarion Call
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Why are you so down cast?
Why have your beats of heart become still?
Why is your fate bound with negritude?
Why does silence prevails on your lips?
Where are the guardians of motherland?
Why are your cities so plight ridden?
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
Somewhere glimmer all lamps,
Somewhere dance enchanting scenes,
Somewhere toss starving children,
Somewhere wheezes miserable life,
Why is it difficult to enkindle the lamps?
This is the dilemma of my motherland
O! My Motherland,
Respond! Speak!
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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