by Muhammad Shanazar
What kind of incident it is,
That the most splendid women,
Of my era are carrying,
On their heads the bundles of pangs,
Of their beloved misplaced;
Stood in front of thorny fence of steel-wire,
Waiting to enter into their own lands;
In their reddish eyes,
Their well furnished houses burn.
My elders entrusted me a better world,
But I am compelled to hand over,
The descending generation a deformed world.
The crops have forgotten
The skills to grow in my farms,
Their lay ambush the dynamites in my soil.
Would that I may take all children
Of the world in my shelter!
On seeing subterranean walk of the death
In my heart creeps a wish to kiss beloved feet.
We in avarice to overcome a meek grain,
Are busy to dig out the graves of one another,
When there exists a splendid immense
Universe restless to listen the sound of strides.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Last updated June 29, 2011