Beneath The Ossa Of Dust
(On the event when five women buried alive)
What kind of hearts
We contain in the chests!
What kind of thoughts
We bear in the minds!
What kind of blood
Flows through our veins!
For the loins and the wolves,
The rats and cats, the dogs and hogs:
The ferocious animals
That bear the brutal hearts,
Dare not bury their fellows alive.
I weep, weep and weep!
I wail, wail and wail!
On the deed you did,
On the crime you committed;
And those who remained silent spectators,
Are the accomplices too,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Sport-Rabbits
When avarice, greed and cupidity,
Sleepingly work in the hearts of the members,
Of the family living in the system combined,
They bring out axes, daggers and clubs wooden,
And rate blood: the red substance very cheap.
I recall one of the hurts my mother sustained,
It was the moon-night: the last eve of the fasting month,
The month of patience, tolerance and tongue controls,
When Man nears himself God: the creator,
And is revealed the secrets of the entire scheme.
The village folk stood on brims of the roofs,
All were gazing to the west with thrilled looks,
To welcome the Eid crescent: the harbinger of pleasures,
My dreadful uncle started bickering with my mother,
That assumed the form of uproarious quarrel.
The incensed uncle pulled out rough acacian club,
Advanced unjustified to assault the exhausted woman,
Who scuttled for her life but the chaser had legs long,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Distributors
I bother not who regards me,
A split being or a psycho-case,
Telling you fact, undoubted fact.
Once my ethereal inner self,
Took a flight, landed on the plains,
Remote, too far to explore,
With the material means of wisdom,
Found myself in a spacious barrack.
The wide floor and thick walls,
Were made with rectangular sills,
Of stone hard, gray and quite old.
Covering with the white sheets,
A few men in deep silence,
Lay resting on the low cots;
In the slight dark as we feel,
In the deep shade of a thick grove,
A slight after the sunset or before rise;
It was dusk or dawn, I could not decide.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dreamy Age
Remembering of the dreamy age,
Fills my eyes with tears,
The sights unpolluted and clear,
Now changed into smoky and full of noise,
Where I played with cheerful friends,
Whom ruthless tides have scattered,
As the wind disperses the dried leaves,
A slight before the dead winter,
Some went abroad, some to the Town of Silence
What a delight it was!
At noon under the blue skies,
Running after the butterflies,
Delicate and nicely-colourful,
Spoiling the mustard farms,
Blossomed yellow, sharply fragrant.
The indignant landlady cursed,
Chasing with a stick wet and long,
But we always were out of her access.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Family Of Seven
I have heard “The mirror tells not a lie, ’
I assuming myself the gorgeous one
Abased in front of the looking-glass.
I was one but the reflections were seven
I was baffled either one was in seven or seven were in one,
The images were mix: male and female,
They all bore my bearings but deformed and mortified
And bore the signs of identity on the chests.
A reflection had razor-sharp teeth, the front ones quite naked,
Black dishevelled hair it had, and fingers with long nails,
And mouth with dots of blood and bore a sign of identity,
“Miss. Ferocity.”
Another image stood along with severity upon the face,
The eyes were reddish-brown and the forehead screwed up,
Upon the head it had a burnished crown,
Not of gold but of iron or steel,
The image bore the symbol of individuality, “Mr. Pride.”
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Last Signal Of Fall
(Written during the power crisis and on the moment when electronic media broke the news that a daughter of the nation has been rapped by the law imposing sentinels at the tomb of the Quaid-i- Azam: The founder of Pakistan)
We weep in pauses, we sleep in pieces,
Our dreams break, we wake to the nightmares;
We scratch, rag our bodies, our nails are blooded,
And we take bath every night in our own sweat.
The infants and children weep and wail
As if we are condemned to hellish zones,
But with out being judged,
Much earlier summoned to damnation
And with no hope of deliverance.
The rulers ask us to be patient a little more,
The day of drudgery will pass if we show strength,
The whole nation is going through the grindstones,
And being given childish consolations in response.
Whom should we ask to relieve us of painful dilemma?
All the doors of justice are shut tight,
Offense it is to speak the truth
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Moon Of Truth Will Live Ever Behind
(Written at the very night when Israel attacked the weaponless Palestinian)
At the dawn of the night while standing on the roof,
I gazed at the full moon ascending imperceptibly in the sky;
It seemed as if smiling in the vacancy at the self-indulgent world.
A dark cloud obscured the face of the moon with a thick curtain,
It seemed wriggling to uncatch grips of the blackness.
The cloud assumed the shape of a wolf:
A ferocious animal of the feral world whether eats or not,
Its mouth is ever blood stained,
In an instant the cloud assumed the form of a shark
Swimming into the ocean of murkiness fearing least the contestants.
Through the patches the stars shone far high above
In their own world unconcerned to the happening, changes,
And lives claiming afflictions.
Then the shark of cloud assumed the image of a snake
Or lashing eel, dissipating at each moment
Into a misty substance and then into nothing.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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O! Buddha Look Behind
O! Buddha look behind for a while,
And see how in the religious
Narrow mindedness what havoc
Your followers play with the humanity.
Though I do not regard you a prophet,
Yet no less than towering apostles of the time.
See how followers of Muhammad (PBUH)
And Alia are victimized by your deviated cliques,
They bestow you grandeur and dignity,
Hundreds of years before they hailed upon the Earth.
O! Buddha look behind for a while,
And remember how you were troubled,
On seeing sufferings of the human fellows,
Irrespective to caste creed and colour.
Remember how often you wept at nights,
Discarding all regal pleasures of the palace,
You escaped to the nearby woodland,
And mediated for weeks by exposing
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Impacts of Horror
After the uproarious tiring activity of the day,
I rested my exhausted head upon the pillow,
And for a while shut up the lids of my eyes,
So that I could peep into my inner self,
To evaluate the endeavour I performed,
From dawn to dusk setting aside,
The principal task: to devote my existence,
For the fellow beings, to remove their pains.
A faint drowsiness occupied my mind,
That began to oscillate making me forgetful,
Of the conscious world of man that began to appear,
No more than a shadow of a dream.
A carriage I beheld advancing towards me,
Approached gliding as if it was weightless,
The coachman though was not human,
Yet had mild countenance, with snow-white,
Beard and brows; his hair flowed down,
Fell upon his shoulders with tight folded wings.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Shambling Fellow
I neither smoke nor drink sippingly,
Nor eat sweeping essence of flowering puppies,
Nor ever tasted the potion of hemp green,
Nor I have cancerous tumors in the brain.
I was thrown from the lofty zones,
Down deep headlong into the dungeon,
Dark narrow subterranean round cave,
Darker it grew at each moment of the down fall,
And journeying against the culminating heights.
Beholding behind nothing except horror I felt,
Only I could see a circular patch of the blue sky,
Then the dark channel began tuning at last,
To the right with imperceptible slow bend,
And I soon came out gasping of the deep tunnel.
In front then I saw the houses small and white,
Painted not afresh, extended left and right,
Numerous congested like a city inhabited thickly,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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