The Prolonged Noons of Loneliness

In the prolonged noons of loneliness,
And in the scorching sun,
Are the melting roads,
And two loathsome tired eyes.
Gaze into the vacancy.

A few moments ago,
There was hustle bustle,
The jostling crowed on the same spot,
Where now the amuser under the shady tree,
Is dozing, resting his head,
On the filthy bag of gadgets of his art.

Lives are deserted spots of amusement,
On the desolate roads lay,
The sold bodies that inhale the borrowed breaths,
The prayers of the heart-mender only reach,
The broken doors of the ruined city of dreams,
They knock but returned void of charity.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Smoke of Violence

He works squeezing strength,
Sweating body, agonizing soul,
Moulds and re-moulds,
Shapes and reshapes,
The metals hard.

Loads on and unload cargoes
From the ships and trains,
Breaks into pieces,
Heads of the boulders,
With the force of shoulders,
Lays them straight to make the roads
Leading to destinations.

Contrives dams to block water,
Or turns tracks of the rivers,
Builds houses and hotels,
And sky-scrapers too.

He blackens his whole being,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Prayers

The rocking hands swayed me back,
The centuries full four and ten behind;
Placed me on the cold wet sandy bank,
At the time of dawn, half light, half night.
Behind I saw stretched sandy plains,
In front calm sea with small ridges
Moving when gentle air moved.

Far away I beheld a ship coming
Ashore from the remote distant land,
Anchored instantly after the voyage long.
I beheld then the men four riding on
The steeds, galloping along splashing waters;
Fully armoured,
Equipped with sharp shining swords;
And captured they the descending voyager,
From the shoulders who cast at me,
A resigned patient look.

Ah! I can recall the heavy rough brows,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Dignified

They are the dignified who being elevated,
Speak among the folk low, low and very low;
Like the laden loaded limbs of a tree of fruit,
To the ground with the wind bend and bow.

Their hands distribute the treasures of God,
To seek His pleasure they respect mankind,
They do not chase wealth to quench appetite,
They give their eyes, their sight to the blind.

They are who share others woe and worries,
They sacrifice the dainty delicious delights,
The kind hearts breathe the air of divine fear,
They always soar to gain marvelous heights.

Their eyes are open, they are not curtained,
With the thick black blinding layers of pride,
They match their consent with Almighty Will,
Submitting themselves throwing Satan aside.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Rustling Leave

In the cold wintry evening,
When it was gloam and twilight,
Covering myself with thick blanket of wool,
I used to go to a small garden,
Where my father planted the apple trees.

Often I roved around the victims,
Of callous spoiling Autumn.
The leafless branches tormented me,
Presenting undressed bare reality.
They looked like skeletons of ghosts,
Without flesh, with naked bones,
Who often disturb us in our sleep.

The swishy wind blew moaning,
Lamenting over the bodies,
Of the dried fallen leaves,
Blowing them to this or that end,
Resting nowhere to be disposed,
Some swept onto the stagnant water,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Cottage Of Love Smashed

An old-man after the burial of two sons,
A daughter and his aged faithful wife,
Began to search contents of the cottage,
With anxious perturbed eyes
Bearing the expression of helplessness.
A few worried men, women and children
Of the locality gathered around to sympathise
With the cumbersome grave hearts.

He rummaged around ashes of the rubbled cottage,
Two goats and their young babes
Lay all shredded amid the wreckage;
A parrot in the cage was ragged, torn to pieces,
But lay liberated from the encagement of life.

The old man searched and searched,
At last found he a bag made of aged patched cloth,
It contained neither money, nor gold nor silver
But a handkerchief, a ring and a few letters,
The relics of his wife: an expired companion

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Threshold Of 2010

Days blend into weeks, and weeks into months,
Months make years, and years compose centuries.

I stand on the verge of 2009: the threshold of 2010,
With my kids overshadowed by apprehensions.
Here at the entrance of the valley of 2010,
I vividly see fog of smoke hovering over the hills,
Forces of the kings running in helter-skelter,
Using the most fatal weapons to snatch
The reserves of oil and the treasures of soil.
The same ancient law of forest is in vogue again
With full fervour, with fresh teeth, new-fangled hunger.
An amphitheatre of human bodies stretched
On the slopes and each rock is coloured red.
I smell the reeking stench of burning blood,
And shades being murdered of thousand of trees,
I fear passing through the valley of horrible events,
Where I shall have to go on leaving behind
At each step injured or murdered fellow beings.
Here I stand forlorn and I can not respond the question

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Cargo of Sins

A sojourn in the sleep,
Led me to the valley deep,
I passed through forest thick,
And high hills and crests,
Along with a saintly guide whom I never knew.

I was led to the front of a cave,
With a huge arched entrance,
It seemed a long dark channel
Connecting to the other zone.

I saw men of massive size,
Entering into and pouring out;
They resembled chimpanzees more than the human figures.
All dressless, and moved with uncovered limbs,
With no sense of shame or disgrace.

Then I saw descending from the steps,
Men and women, all naked,
With cargoes upon their backs.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Giant

Often my mind baffles,
And the stock of wisdom ends,
When I think with wonder upon
The amazingly perplexing figure.

I found on the alien ground,
A giant-like being in the size full,
Sitting with graceful posture,
Whose face, each curve and crease,
Resembled mine as if I were,
His portrait small or He were mine,
But much larger, giant-like in dimension.

Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Catastrophic End

Humanity can not help making
The devilish weapons,
Each nation is running the race
Of inventing the fatal devices
For the catastrophic end,
Conventional, nuclear and chemical,
Some have attained the skill to devise
The antimatter bomb.

I know on a certain day
Some crazy so-called pioneer
Of peace will push the button
With a leprous hand,
A hail of missiles will pour down,
The earth will sustain the wounds
Of enormous, massive craters,
Smoke will engulf the planet,
Biological life will be at the verge
Of extinction, a few furious rivals
Will survive, but they will incessantly fight,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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