The Mobile Roses
Children are the symbols,
Of hope, of innocence, of vitality,
Add colours to life,
With shades light and dark,
As a painter on the rough surface,
of canvas does with a brush.
They are the comedians,
Bring solace, entertaining relief,
In weariness, tedium of toil.
They laugh with tears in the eyes,
They weep smilingly,
Like great actors on the stage.
By climbing up the stairs,
Think mounting the Himalayan tops,
And walking before the elders,
They feel to be the leading champions,
And eat ice-cream with coffee hot.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Amid The Winds Of December
(On The Departure of December,2008)
December departs from us,
But is unwilling to depart,
The winds blow,
They shed; they blow the yellow leaves,
And they waft with the gusts
As if weightless, straightness,
And sightless too.
The blows drive them to and fro,
Now they move ahead, then they stop,
As if they stop to relax or look behind
With wonder and coyness,
To Nature undressing like a nude,
Uncovering, exposing a bitter reality:
Pleasing to the lascivious hearts,
But pungent to the ascetics.
They are reluctant,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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When The Break Ensued
The curfew was imposed,
The women, men and children
Of the valley were banned
To come out of the houses.
The whole hot day of June
Was spent in exchange of fire,
The volleys of bullets went overhead
With the buzzing sounds;
Sometime mortars and heavy guns
Came in action too.
The soldiers roved in the deserted streets
All resistant with weapons,
As if the ghosts were discarded,
From the door of purgatory,
And they all came back to launch a war
Against the countrymen.
Their mother and daughters, sisters and wives,
Sitting afar are baffled to think upon,
Whether they would return in persons
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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What Is Love
Love exits since beginning!
Beyond the string of words,
But is a reality.
Love in the firmament of thoughts,
In the guise of clouds,
Always flutters, soars high,
Sometimes contracted into the drops of rain,
Impinges, scatters on the land of heart.
Taking delicacies from the breeze,
And fragrance from the roses,
Colours from the rainbow,
Light from the stars,
Weave a beautiful Anchal,
And from the same Anchal adorns,
Mud-made houses.
Love throws into trials,
Sometimes becoming poetry,
Enhances deference of the words,
Sometimes becoming a tune,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Hand Of Benediction
Sometimes from no evident cause,
Emotions spring up by their own accord,
Heart begins weeping shriekingly,
The eyes shed molten scaring drops,
Drenching deep scalding the cheeks,
And thick dark clouds of depression,
Wrap mind from all sides around.
The stifled heart at mid-night moaned,
The screaming voices compelled to call,
One of the Helpers to render help,
For they are assigned by God to work,
In the east and west, north and south.
Impatient tongue uttered evoking sounds,
Gurgled up from the recesses deep,
“Help! Help! O! Helper help.”
Besought I not in the form abstract,
But in concrete, visible lifelike figure.
On the call third, a complete outer sketch,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Joint Feeling
I did not see The Lord,
But I felt myself in front
Of His Mighty Court of Justice,
Along with numerous men,
Dressed in grey,
Like the students of olden times.
All with naked heads,
And naked feet,
They gathered in an open ground,
To account for their deeds,
Waited for their turn
For appearance before the Justice.
I had been acquainted
With a few of them,
They were potent
In public and politics,
Enjoyed themselves authority,
And high place,
By dint of wealth and estate,
But then hapless.
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The First Anniversary Of Nuclear Explosions
The pitcher of the Earth
Has got emptied
The water-bags of eyes
Of the damsels going to the fountains
Have dried;
Un-kissed kisses of the damsel of Thur
From the yellow branch of lips
Shed one by one.
The farms
Where my ploughmen seeded Life
Now Death is getting its roots deeper.
On the chest of the Earth
The crops of sores wave,
And half dead colonies: villages and towns
Are sitting on the brims of grave,
Hanging the feet down,
Gilding eyes with a hope of last ablutions.
Those who fight on the front thirst
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On Terrorism
A bestial sport that erases,
The names of men from the book,
Of creatures fair and courteous;
Brutalizing into the savage beasts.
A black, heinous, sable spot,
On the beauteous countenance,
Of humanity, making appearance,
Frightening of atrocious cannibals,
Of those who shudder not least,
At committing the murderous game.
They find profuse panic pleasure,
In licking warm trickling blood,
Cutting throats, perforating chests,
Sucking marrowed bones, eating flesh.
How proud are they of wearing dress,
Stained with coagulated paint,
Escaping from the temporal rules,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Be Heeded
My love! Then you have decided,
That it is apposite to flatten
The craving of destination,
The world desires it too,
And the life goes on in the same mode.
Listen! To grumble against the world
Has become an old practice,
You solicit to your heart too
That what does it intend.
The world has not snatched yet from you
The hope of destination,
Tomorrow it will persuade you
To renounce the route of life;
It will say to you to scratch out
Your eyes from their sockets.
The world will persuade you
To search for pulsation in the idols;
Then what will you do?
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Replacement
Amid the village is a deserted house,
That gives depressing impressions to the onlookers,
The windows and doors are shabby broken
There dangle bats on the walls at nights, and crows caw
At noons in the branches where nightingales sang,
And often at nights mysterious sounds we hear.
Ah! Four decades ago it was inhibited,
Noise of the children spilled out of its walls,
They all played hide and seek with the befriended kids.
I too played believing in the innocent notion
That time and tide could not part us asunder,
Whether rains rain and clouds thunder,
But my self-assumed belief proved fragile,
Then the shocking moments approached,
And occupants departed to a better dwelling abroad.
I often recall the moment when they departed,
The whole village gathered, men, women and children wept,
Their eyes were red as if blood would dropp soon;
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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