The Best Service
O! Friends, where have gone the old preachings,
Of the divine prophets and of the saints teachings?
Why has Man averted His eyes, His heart and face,
And has followed the direction that leads to disgrace?
Why has Man made gods, Money, Silver and Gold
To the Eternal Enemy He very cheap His soul has sold?
Why does He worship them chasing His perdition,
Against the voice of conscience, Divine Admonition?
Why does He usurp and snatch the rights and shares,
Of others, making the world a muddle full of cares?
No prophet and no celestial book will now descend,
Then who is, the responsibilities, the duties to attend?
Allow not Man to advance to the zone dismal, dark;
Where the loins growl, the wolves howl, the dogs bark.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Open Eyes
How often a thought of unfair deeds,
Terribly haunt my vain guilty mind,
Shaking inner self, core of conscience,
The wanton pleasures of indelible past,
Become tormenting, painfully torturous,
Make troublesome the whole existence,
And running substance changes into gall.
I set once my sheep and goats free,
To graze in the uneven green pasture.
Seeing something edible in my hands,
A bird after hovering over my head,
Rested slight afar, at distance safe,
Out of breath, bent the eyes to me,
With hopeful accosting innocent gaze.
It was beautiful, all shining blue,
But against cherished hope in mind,
I hurled a round stone with force full,
That fell too heavy on the too weak,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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We Dust The Eyes
We the men and women of the world,
Remain annoyed
With brothers, sisters and fellow beings;
Spend lives
Dining the dinners of hatred,
Taking the waters of hypocrisy,
Breathing the air of arrogance.
We trouble, we tease, we torment,
Plotting, playing
Against them the foul games;
And when one dies,
Departs to the world next,
We gather around the corpse
With tied jaws, close eyes, wrapped in shroud.
We shriek and shout, we weep and wail
We cling to the feet, fall to embrace the deceased,
We sniff back the tears,
Some shed them as does a crocodile,
We wipe, rub the noses to make them red,
As if we are bruised and battered by the pang.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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O! The Sacred Land
O! The Sacred Land,
May ever fall, flow melodious cascades,
Flourish your deep valleys, green glades,
And may time erase the streak of divisions,
Of caste, of creed, of sects and grades.
O! The Sacred Land,
May upon your face flowers ever bloom,
Till the world goes on, till the day of doom,
And may He secure, protect your treasures,
Cast away winds of pain, clouds of gloom.
O! The Sacred Land,
May sweet sun ever shine upon your land,
The rains ever pour upon your thirsty sand,
May your children live the life full of bliss,
While going ahead supporting hand in hand.
O! The Sacred Land,
May you ever progress by leaps and bounds,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Walima (Wedding Dinner)
A ceremony where hidden absurdities,
Underneath the rustling dresses, coated skin,
Painted lips, combed hair and shaved faces,
Come up shamelessly to jump at the opportunity.
A competition of filling the big containers,
With sweet spicy warm dainty dishes,
Of chicken, beef, mutton, rice with salad.
How gluttonous participants stuff the bellies,
The leg in mouth wing in hand, chest in plate,
Avaricious eyes stare around to have more!
And how frantically like horses they eat,
When they are let loose in the lush green corn,
They eat less and spoiling pillage more,
As if the doomsday will cease the world tomorrow.
Ah! The simpletons move with empty plates.
With huge yellow greasy spots in front,
The uninvited seem happier than the invited,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Three Graves
Early in the morn, into the ooze
There lay three sacks;
All tied tight with thin cords of polythene.
The sacks were muddy, blood seeped out
Through the fiber of jute.
Around them were pools of blood,
Mingling into the oozy contents,
The men, women and children went
And came by unheeded as nothing happened.
At last men of law came in uniforms
In haste with a hooting ambulance,
And they loaded the stained sacks,
Rushed towards the police station,
And placed them into a room in the basement.
The sacks contained mutilated bodies,
Minced hands and heads, brains and bellies,
Of a sister and two brothers, they were murdered
For no guilt but for being innocent.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On Death
A physician that relives,
Pangs of all maladies,
Indiscriminate to small or great;
Treads under the heavy hooves,
Who are too raised in the world,
Presses them hard to flatten
But it touches them gently,
Who crumble their rebellious ego.
A frequent visiting phenomenon,
Yet forsaken by the victims,
Rough to arrogant and proud,
But subservient slave to Omnipotent,
Fears not obeying His commands.
Removes the screen opaque or green
Eclipsing inevitable final reality.
An open door where from,
Each one has to go through,
The weak, fragile and humble,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Sons Owe A Lot
The trickling fountains of the land,
Douse thirst of parched throats,
The waterfalls sing the melodies,
The deep forests shelter
Stretching overhead the canopy of shadows
On the journey through the sweltering times.
The spheres provide with fresh airs to inhale,
And the plains lay a grassy carpet under our feet.
Now I am haunted by fears,
Numerous grimy stained hands are stretching,
And evil eyes are gazing at you my motherland;
Now you claim something precious,
More precious than the ordinary sacrifices,
And we being hapless have joined our hands
With aliens’ forgetting all your nourishments,
We received from the treasure of your chest,
Just like disloyal sons who turn their eyes away
From the aged mother.
I too am one of them, helpless feeble and weak,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Confession
Oh my God! I am weak and fail,
In my wills to the beguiling Enemy,
Who tempts me against prohibitions,
Rides on my fragile heart and mind,
Shows me the path lusty poignant,
My defiant unbridled limbs
Break the defensive line of fence.
Oh my God! I am fallen into hands,
Wrong, deceitful and fraudulent,
So I can not win the battle so hard,
Though determined in vain thousand times,
To shun the Enemy, to prove my faith,
Bestow me the unflinching fortitude,
To wrestle against the Fake Omnipotent.
Oh my God! I corrupted myself,
While sinning more than the drops of rains,
Have poured down since beginning,
More than the stars and spaces stretched,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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He Was Not A Stranger
I awoke rubbing my eyes,
For someone disturbed my sleep;
A figure I witnessed in the light,
The intruder made me perplexed,
Though the door and all windows were shut,
Even a fly had no slit to prod her head,
Yet he entered into my sleeping-room,
And I was marveled, baffled more and more;
I stifled my shriek lest he should be an angel,
Or an agent, ministering the hell.
He was roughly clad, his dress was ragged,
No better than a scarecrow with torn sleeves and hems,
He had long disheveled hair with entangle bits of straw,
His mouth dribbled, his fleshy belly was round,
Skin all black with many coats of filth,
Hands with the fingers long, enormously nailed,
The eyes were horrible, grey sightless, gave no impressions.
Overcoming morbid I questioned, “O! Stranger who are you,
How did you hop in, what mischief you intend to do? ”
He jerked his dribbling jaws and responded,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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