A Shoulder I Need

Need I nothing but a shoulder to prop,
To place upon my head, the tears to shed.
The tormenting existence, worries of life,
The cruel pangs of the heart are resolved,
To crumble, crush my soul, my existence.
And at these moment of plight you reside,
Far away in the distant, remote world.

Need I nothing but a shoulder to prop,
To place upon my head, the tears to shed.
I am agonized for I had been deprived of,
Nourishing, sustaining food love yesterday,
I am pained for loneliness stings me today.
I stand at the dismal spot helpless, forlorn,
Neither there is any comfort to rehabilitate,
The drab, deserted land, valley of the heart;
Nor anyone has remedy of my misfortunes.

Need I nothing but a shoulder to prop,
To place upon my head, the tears to shed.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I Shall Keep Crying

O! Heedless Generals of the parading troops,
Overloaded with the warring martial contents,
I shall keep crying aloud, at the top of my voice,
Though my tongue is plucked out of the roots.

You are the blind dummies of the sightless kings,
Only you pillage, plunder the world to increase a row
Of brassy stars upon your thick broad shoulders,
Or to gather a medal worth a dime to embellish,
Your hollow heartless rattling cold-blooded chests.

You obey the master kings with out knowing,
To kill, kill and kill humanity: the fellow beings.
What aims are yours, what missions you struggle for?
Just for vain victories imparting pungent pleasures.
You have been blood-drunk since the period pre-historic,
You have been playing the game, the match of butchery,
You have been entertaining with the bloody sport,
To kill, kill and kill is your hobby, a painful pastime.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Visit to the Deserted House

Ah! The ties of the golden age have been razed,
Removed by the sharp double edged razor of time,
The whole period swings before my invisible eyes,
The memories spring up like impatient mushrooms,
Out of the heap of memories: undisturbed scrap.

I see the faint, faded image of my mother sitting,
Exhausted on the sill of the door, engrossed,
Absorbed in profound thoughts devising the device,
To encounter the reserved worries of tomorrow;

I see my father sitting on the cot, drowsing leaning,
Against the wall in the sweet sunshine of winter,
And sometime an abrupt snort jerks, awakes him.

I behold my uncle in one corner weaving baskets,
With the mulberry wet flexible sticks bending them,
And twisting, recollecting the strength of all muscles.

I see a few hens clucking in the mud-plastered yard,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Robots (An Observation at the Centralized Marking)

Human robots, men of mechanical age,
Bending the heads cast down the eyes,
Seek; sort out the errors of others,
Shutting eyes to the plagues of their own.
Scratch, scribbles pages making them red,
Like torn stained cloak of the sinner,
Condemned, stoned in the ancients times.

Their hands move, fingers flip the leaves,
Rebelling the command of their own mind,
Work with deep wrinkled irrisible faces,
Devoid of sweet smile, with prints of pangs.

Advance they to the Heads with timid hearts,
Holding breath for approval of the pen green,
Suppressing courage, and subduing valour,
As a rebuked, recoiled hungry child,
Goes ahead to the sustaining parents,
To beg pardon of the fiftieth wrong,
Or as a murderer confronts shrinking,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Burial Of Tragedy

Recollection of childhood,
Takes me behind to the past,
The memories,
Sometimes make me sad,
And sometimes quite glad.

Now I recall a man, middle aged,
Mysteriously mad,
I knew not his origin, he ambled
Through the nearby town,
With disheveled hair,
Dressed in tattered brown,
He had unwashed body
With lean sable legs, and feet
Always with sole-broken boots.
Though his face was harrowed,
Yet emitted prints of learning.
He didn't accept coins
Or notes of charity, nor did he beg
As if these diminished his dignity.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Fifth Angel

Gabriel finished His task of conveying,
The divine massages,
To the selected men of God;
Michael is still busy to perform,
To render the assigned business,
Moving the winds, drifting the clouds,
And pouring them on the crops,
Managing the stock for sustenance,
From the smallest creature to the gigantic one,
Azreal obligates drawing the souls,
And imparts, distributes the alms of death,
Israfeal has held in his mouth since beginning,
A clarion to blow, to announce,
The end of every think, he stands alert,
Neither does he sleep nor does he doze,
Lest he should commit disobedience,
Of a single moment when time comes,
And the Commandment commands,
To demolish the entire structure,
The visible phenomenon of the universe.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Drum Beat

On listening to the measured sound,
Of the distant drum beat,
With sweeping sounds of the pipes.
On the other end of the village,
On wedding of couple,
I was carried out of myself.
And thrilling blood ran into veins,
With the sense of vitality.

I lost my control on me,
As if my limbs were not mine.
For the spell queer.
Worked on me and my fellows,
Of the same age,
Who being charmed ran,
Attracted by the drum beat.
As pleasing smell attracts,
The bees, flies and moths.

Each taking two rods wooden,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On Slaughtering

I claim not, fair or unfair,
But tell you, what I did see,
On the chicken slaughterer’s shop
When I ordered for the one.

They were numerous,
Moving and clucking,
Soft, white and vigorous,
Unaware to the death approaching,
For they were to be dined.

A man callous faced,
Clad in dress blood stained,
Caught one from the wings,
Pressed legs with a clumsy foot,
Wrenching neck, stifled throat,
With the thumb nail.

With a heart hardened by practice,
A long sharp knife, moved crosswise

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Cow Amid The Butchers

Labour of the day
Made me exhausted,
Rocked into the valley of sleep,
The world of strange happenings,
And I beheld an astonishing object:
A cow, enormous like a mountain,
Around her was a huge gathering
Of men and women, all Lilliputians.

They had sharp instruments,
Knives, axes, choppers, and blades,
Mulberry-baskets, bags of polythene.
From peon to prince,
All working and ruling figures
Of the land were busy in chopping the cow,
And the men in uniforms were having
Their own legitimate shares.

A man with crowned shoulders
And medals on the chest,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Tribute

Quintessence of radiance in the days utter of dark,
Unparallel among the guides, fairly upto the mark,
An advocate with plenteous, bounteous sincerity,
Invincible, feared neither wolf’s howl nor dog’s bark.

Decent in manners, humble and modest in being,
Efficacious in thinking, alert and vigilant in seeing,
Adhesive to the mission, incarnated embodied truth,
Zeal and zest packed rider on the steed galloping.

An aspiring figure, to the secured harbour he rowed
Majestically steering the lobbing ship, never bowed,
Malicious he was to none but clang to the just cause,
Undaunted he was and accomplished what he vowed.

Harmonious and integral he was in saying and deed,
Adroit and perfect guide he was in faith and creed,
Manly, steadfast, sagacious he was in his dealings,
Meticulous model he was on the hazy road to lead.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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