by Muhammad Shanazar
And it is evident from my forehead,
I am an historian of the ruined world;
I do not have any reader in my fortune,
And no city acknowledges me.
I am food of the same Earth,
My fate is destined
To make me Hiroshima of this century.
Ah! Migration is imperative on my fellow beings.
Encamps on my sands,
And Death is binding anklets
To be my partner in the ballet.
My people have buried Laughter,
In their lips,
Desertedness sniggers at me,
With voiceless giggles.
The eyes of Explosive reflect,
The conspiracy to preserve
Dead bodies of the butterflies.
My weaponless seasons,
Make infertile resistance against wars;
When Fire smacks my calendar.
War is destined to thrust me,
Into such an era which never turns again.
Ah! Each widow of the grave,
Permits to pass through but inside.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Last updated July 01, 2011