The Fair Bread
The sky is clear and scorching the sun,
Hot wind blows fast along with dust,
None seen outside but children run,
Who are beyond the evil of rust.
A man appears having staff on his head,
Who is a perspiring poor hawker,
Shouting loudly, he's moving ahead,
Who is weak but strong as a walker.
Some children buy and pay for it,
And he moves with his earlier pace,
The gust of wind and the sun him hit,
The sweat with dust lies on his face.
Coming home, he takes rest on his bed,
And thanks God truely for His grace,
Cause he's earned the fair bread,
And, so satisfaction sits on his face.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Cottage
Nobody can weigh respect and love,
Wealth can't weaken them or power,
Nothing can tempt cause they're high above,
Where, there dwells knowledge bower,
People seek in royal robes and towers,
I've sought in a hut that is small,
The place is blessed where knowledge showers,
Only hut to them, but to me the world all.
It has been shined with math's golden rays,
That sun has set but redness is still there,
To mark the people to their successful ways,
Now, a silver light of English's shown from there,
That's witnessed many ups and down,
And proved talent doesn't need one, but itself a crown.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Mother
At first I opened my eyes and found,
A smiling, attractive and beautiful face,
Seeing her I paused my crying sound,
And began to flow on love's surface.
She empowered my body that was mild,
And for me careful by day and night,
Being suffered yet she for me smiled,
And bestowed me pleasure in every plight.
The latest and sweetest gift from heaven,
The idol of love and figure of mercy,
Like a kindness plant, flowers laden,
Whose fragrance has bestowed me decency.
I love paradise and wish to achieve,
And appreciate it more than any other,
Cause it is said and as I believe,
Paradise touches the feet of my mother.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Lovely Morning
The sun is rising with its beams,
Pale light is spreading everywhere,
Giving us invitation as it seems,
Or a king bestowing gold here and there,
The darkness's left the battle cause morn is getting here.
Mountains are glowing like the fire,
And forest has gained the life again,
Quick moving river-waves happily admire,
And present dew drops that are being slain,
In the respect of the sun like ascending chain.
People are getting up from their lovely sleep,
And rays of the sun force them to see,
The new morning has come with the heap,
Of joy, hope and secret of success to thee,
But the noble men've already got up with glee.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Muzzammil
One who loves the past,
And likes not the present fashion,
Days upon him are vast,
But nights sooth him with emotion,
Sleeps well forgetting all about the day,
And expecting favourable one someday.
The conflict him and time,
Change himself or the surroundings,
He wins and sometimes prime,
Like quarreling cute siblings,
He looks modern but his heart is old,
And loves classical things that are gold.
He knows his glorious history,
And puts his eyes on present plight,
His heart weep, that's mystery,
And have often sleepless night.
[...] Read more
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Sir Syed Ahmad khan(A revolutionary person)
A great person of the earth,
That never flew in the sky,
Gave his people a state of worth,
Now freely where they fly,
Yet no head be raised before him,
Like a poor lamp before the sun dim.
All the hopes when ended in smoke,
And future seemed extremely dark,
His revolutionary thoughts stroke,
And then appeared a revolt spark,
That opened sharply their mental knot,
Which circumstances had slowly brought.
In the storm he contained himself,
And lit a candle of the knowledge,
Gathered his wise people like pelf,
And shaped his dreams into a college,
That is our glory and matter of proud,
Where Sir Syed shines yet being in shroud.
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Song Of Venus
It is saying of the old,
Love is precious more than gold,
Belongs it to a tender heart,
That can't be sold in the mart.
Being magic yet it is blind,
Not easy but hard to find,
By thorns surrounded it like a rose,
Love lies in the mid of ratios.
Through eyes it alight the heart,
Create in a heart too much unrest,
On seeing her pace like a hart,
One sings a love song with zest.
Heart to heart was love before,
But now it falls on only pelf,
Remains not forever but a bit more,
And ends shortly like a delf.
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poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Fate Of Love
The sky is limitless dome,
All the planets are jewells,
The night looks pretty home,
There is beauty where love dwells,
But, eagle always hunts the dove,
The beauty is free but not love.
God's made men but not caste,
They've themselves erected walls,
In the courtyard of human, that would be vast,
So, poor love strives flying but falls,
The society's made among us destinition,
The caste is the obstacle in love's destination.
I know not what the pain,
Or what to say that I feel,
All my efforts may go in vain,
If my compulsion doesn't let me reveal,
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poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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The Plight of Humanity
There is a glade full of flowers,
Like a new, decorated bride,
Winds blows slowly, it showers,
Enjoying nature on steed I ride,
In woods I reach happily by and by,
But forced me to pause the deepest sigh.
Bewildered I turn back and see,
A pretty lady in ragged attires,
And sobbing under a bald tree,
To ask her well being, I'm on fire,
'Who are you and why here? I'm keen,
Why in ragged dress, mourning thou seen? '
Wiping her tears, she begins to speak,
'I'm humanity, for what they proud,
But have forgotten me, so I'm weak,
Before my death they folded me in shroud,
From the beats somehow I've taken flight,
And now you see me in miserable plight.'
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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Buddha Himself Weeps
The wind passing by me,
Has blood smell with cries,
By and by I open my eyes and see,
Wounded humanity before me lies,
In the lap of Buddha her head she keeps,
Seeing her misery, he himself weeps.
The Last Mughal comes to him in white attire,
Speaks softly having tears in his eyes,
'Who has disturbed me by putting fire?
Why hurt humanity in thy lap lies?
Brought me here from India for final rest,
I've been given for her the sacrificing test.'
'Anger is the foe of peace and brain,
It has put fire that forced thee arise,
I have come to heal my daughter again, '
Buddha speaks having tears in hiseyes,
[...] Read more
poem by Mohammad Muzzammil
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