by Muhammad Shanazar
The first post-destruction flower,
That blossomed in your soil,
Resting in my nostrils,
Tells me a tale of domination of life on death.
What sort of people they were
Who had nothing to impart
Their coming generations except radiation.
I instead of writing,
On the havoc of war write against war;
I love my hustling bustling cities,
Upon which the plans
Of extension of graveyard laugh aloud.
I love those human bodies
Whose feet will be blown asunder
And will fall far away,
And in the legs will creep behind an urge to walk.
That who rained fire upon you
Might have been blind,
On the farm of his forehead,
No damsel might have seeded a kiss.
It is because of you I am capable,
To love the inhabitants,
Across the boundary-line,
My poems are the ointment
On the wounds that your womb sustained.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Last updated July 08, 2011