Dejected Girls Residing On Both Sides Across The Boundary-line
South Asia
Is alert for the rental war,
Craters
Are ready to replace with the courtyards
Hustling bustling with the children.
Seeing death having a sojourn,
Around my larynx life has returned,
In eyes of the weapon dealers.
O! My young soldiers,
I am against slaughtering, sacrificing,
Your healthy innocent bodies,
At the altar of ferocious god of war;
For I love you,
I am struggling for your liberty,
And beaming future.
O! Life imparting women of Asia,
You learn how to express
Abhorrence against war for it is jealous
Of your motherhood
And matrimonial pleasures,
And is bent upon to hand over
Your beloved husbands
To spiteful darkness of the graves.
O! Dejected girls
Residing on both sides across the boundary-line,
Your laughter only can depose the war.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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My Asia
My Asia!
You have the fever of 105,
That is why its intensity is roasting the world.
I am looking
The War adorns
Your forehead with galaxies,
The archeologists see
Your hustling bustling cities
With ferocious looks,
And there creep into your streets foot-sounds
Of the grave-diggers.
The Harbingers of Peace
(After war)
For the tenders of your renovation
Are growling at one another.
I have to save your children
And your songs
From being trampled beneath the tanks.
My Asia!
I am an inhabitant of the era of War,
And embarrassed on being a human.
Though I am all alone
And empty-handed,
Yet I am an ambassador
Of Life
Beauty and Freedom.
I have come into the world to ward off
The War pounding at your threshold,
But I am continuously ashamed.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dreams and Weapons
We are the astray travellers,
Of South Asia,
We have purchased weapons
by selling our dreams;
And always preferred to form forces
To the starving children.
Now in our deserted courtyard
The trenches slink,
And blood-claiming Furnace of War
Gazes at our well grown up bodies
With capricious eyes.
War
From behind the table of dialogue
Whispers to us,
And the starved graveyard
By steadily creeping,
Has reached walls of the city.
On the branch of our helpless eyes,
The dream of prosperity and friendship
Is withering.
The moment is alert, awakening in my blood,
When these forces … in front of my eyes
Will ravage ruin Beauty and Life.
Only Death will be alive to discriminate
Between the conqueror and the conquered,
And Silences,
Will celebrate the event on our half burnt bodies.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I Am A Bride-groom Of War Procession (A War Poem)
Youth
Is the natural right
Of my innocent children.
War
Claims a part of my age;
My back is destined not to become a bow,
Death has built a nest in my chest;
And dread
Travels though my bones,
These my young and warm hands,
Which had been kissed more than often,
By my beloved women
Now are marked by death.
I wish that before my death,
I could take my aged mother in my lap;
Ah! No one is there to shed tears
On the death of Happiness.
I am a Bride-groom of war procession,
Radiation will apply Surma to my eyes,
At the very moment,
Life on my cheeks will die down,
My shoes will sleep in mud prostrate,
And the rags of my shirt,
Will cover nudity of any half-burnt tree.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Surma: A black stone ground into powder which is applied to blacken the eyes.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Smoke Is Rising From The Branch Of Olive
War
Is impending over our heads,
And Alla Din of Death,
Having the lamp in his hands,
Is waiting for a signal.
Smoke is rising
From the branch of olive,
To see the blind,
The useless,
And the heap of broken bodies,
Is the fate of our eyes.
I am seeding the flowers,
Life, freedom, and peace.
“Peace through war” is the game
Of weapon merchants,
The powers at war have brutal relation
With one another.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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My Heart Is The Nest Of Dove
The wind,
Coming from the battlefield,
Pours into my ears,
The neighing of the horses.
The collective graves,
Are about o invade my cities;
And the coffin-sellers,
Look to our fresh young bodies
With avaricious eyes.
The Spider of Death is busy,
In weaving cobweb of my casualty.
O! Gravediggers,
Remove scattered hunger
From your courtyards,
For there is hustle and bustle
In the graveyard.
Come!
Let us protest on the roads
Against war;
My Readers be my witness,
I did not tarnish my pen
With the anthems of wars,
My identity,
Are the songs of peace,
My songs are digging the roots of wars,
For my heart is the Nest of Dove.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Moon, Peace And The Earth
Those who invented
For me the sullied terms,
Of the Third World
And the South Asia,
Have brought me to the wall.
The wall that does have any door.
I have only one option open to me,
And that leads to the battlefield,
The guardian of peace,
Came out a consultant of my enemy.
It is a season to harvest
The produce of apprehensions,
The army is busy in saddling the steeds.
What kind of fire it is!
Those who feel themselves secure
Are in the clutches death.
Let us borrow a little peace
From the Moon and in exchange
Lend it a little life,
Perchance in such a way,
Some samples of history,
Life and civilization
Might remain preserved on the Moon.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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In The Clutches Of Death
War
Is a mutiny against life
And civilization.
I am loyal to both
Life and peace,
But forced to live
In the shadow of death.
Those who defeated the armies,
Can not defeat wars.
I am in the clutches death,
And all doors
Of deliverance are slammed.
A few warriors have made hostage
The whole humanity.
“Peace and friendship are incompatible”
Is only war viable?
The army
Is busy is bent upon to slam for us
The door of future.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Avarice To Overcome A Meek Grain
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)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An Elegy Of The Earth
I before my death,
Have composed,
An elegy of the Earth,
Which (after war)
Roodali of the Air will sing,
Weeping and wailing,
Sitting amid the burnt
Decomposed bodies.
The Decree of Death
Has been written,
On the pale forehead of the Earth;
Only time is to be fixed.
We are neither afraid of death,
Nor covetous for life,
We only wish to relish in full,
Our natural life before the final ruin,
And it is our right too.
If war is indispensable,
We shall fight it only for our existence,
For our dreams are not
The fuel for the wars being fought on rent.
‘Roodali’ is a professional woman whom the elite class of the Sikhs hires to lament on the death of someone.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An Epitaph Of A Collective Grave
Human race,
On soggy lath of its fate,
Writes suicide.
The window of my eye,
Opens to the future.
For the lap of my Earth,
An epitaph of a collective grave
Is being written;
On the head-side of which
A dried lamp is looking to the way
For mustard of its own share.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Science Is Killing Us All
Holding the hem of an old worn out dream,
We have reached a footpath.
In the callous streets
Of the hilarious city
Making the atom bomb
Our covering
Keeping begging bowls in the hands
And arms on the fore-heads
We are dormant all oblivious.
Amid the fodder
And the crop of swaying starvation,
Our tossing children
Sleep every day
On the worn out carpet of patriotism,
Tasting the flowing salt of their eyes
And licking the long-ranged missiles.
Long lurking militant tongues
Are bent to represent the weapon-adorers.
Life
Love
Who is the ambassador of Freedom?
Our skills are consumed,
In always chiseling the weapons,
Yes; Science is killing us all.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Difference Between God and Man
The world,
God created
In full six days,
Man is competent
To destroy it
In six minutes.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Last Day Of Life On The Earth
The womb
Of the earth is bleeding,
Perhaps
The last day of life on this
Planet has reached;
The same day, when
The air will begin to simmer;
And the space
To quench its thirst will gulp
The seven seas.
War
Is constantly in our chase,
Let us to save our lives
Should flee to the Mars.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Ras Koh Has Died
(1)
When the womb of Ras Koh
Had been burnt, turned into ashes,
Kaleem (converser)
With blessed steps, came down from the top,
Into the valley.
From one end to the other
Death danced;
He had in his right hand the slats of death,
And the parched lips
Leapt with a wish to kiss them.
In the left hand was a vial
That contained Surma of Ras Koh,
Millions of eyes lay
On the declining route of the hill
With an urge to have a sight imparting skewer.
The descender broke
Good tidings with a new zealous tone,
“Ras Koh has been eternalized.”
And the people began to chafe
Their forehead on the ashes in gratitude.
(2)
Ras Koh has died!
The winds dressed in black, disheveling hair,
Move valley to valley, singing His elegy.
Ras Koh has died!
The birds in his ragged costume,
Have forgotten their flights,
And now His awaiting paths
Are eager to listen
To the sounds of foot-steps of a man,
Now who will come up to share
The pangs of the mountain?
Ras Koh has died!
His thirsty shepherds have turned into dust
Of the paths leading to dry fountains.
Now black rains rain on its top
Which in near future
Will be the fate my courtyards.
Ras Koh has died!
And now from His lifeless ashes
Will emerge Several Hiroshimas.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Thorn In The Feet Of Humanity
28th May blackened
The clean countenance
Of my calendar,
And ruined
The days of future into rubble.
On that day
We turned our back
To our survival.
The sneaking era
Entangled around our feet,
And we could never rise
From that period.
Now
The smoke will spurt up
From our well furnished houses.
A dreadful explosion,
Perforated
The existence our dream.
Now we are alive
But with the dread of Death.
A half burnt corpse
Of a young solider
Haunts me in my sleeps;
It had in its cold hands,
A crumbled picture
Of a damsel who resides
On some remote unknown seaside;
And in her golden eyes
‘To wait’ is inscribed.
We are: a thorn in the feet of humanity,
That is bent upon
To lose harvest of the centuries.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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My Inner-self Is Dead Since Long
The bargain of peace,
Does not award commission;
All favour death,
But I am compelled to beg,
Donations of life,
From the weapons.
Despite we went through
Half a century of trials,
We could not learn from our environ.
The life is changing its costume,
The destiny has proclaimed
That the cockroaches will govern the earth.
My inner-self is dead since long,
War will dispose my corpse,
I am the song whom my contemporaries
Are scared to compose.
The training areas touch our abodes,
We generation to generation
Are the guardians of white elephants.
Someone should pick,
A chew of love from my heart,
To dropp it into hearts of the rulers.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An Army Ensnares My Dream
A dream chases me,
I always seed the forests
Of olive in the dream,
So that the inhabitants
May breathe fresh air,
And could live natural length life.
A dream chases me,
And an army ensnares my dream;
Now my dream has begun
Peeping out of my eyes.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Next Poem In The Prison
The seed of war grows well,
On the farm of hatred;
I abhor wars,
Though my victory be certain;
I abhor enforced exodus,
And the camps too,
The camps peep out of my eyes,
I am in search of
Absolute peace and liberty,
My search winks at me.
I am with peace,
And my fate is isolation,
I shall write,
The next poem in the prison.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Denizen Of An Ill-fated Planet (A War Poem)
From the womb of life,
Smoke is squirting up,
The tempest of war
Is about to extinguish
The flame of life.
I am a denizen of the same ill-fated planet!
Our back again inclines to bend;
And the slithering era,
Again bends upon to dominate us all.
Dread
Hatred
And violence have snatched from us
All compassion: an essence of humanity;
And we have thrown
Dreams of generations
Into the furnace of war.
Now our faces bear only sockets,
Void of eyes.
Ah! We are heading towards a forest!
In search of beautiful dawn,
That will never see the sunrise time,
Death will invade us instantly;
And that day,
After every second,
Will be the World War Third.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Poem For Atal Bihari Vajpayee
My Enemy!
Have you forsaken reading
The writes on the hems of petals
With the hands of dew?
Doesn’t the smile
On the flowery faces of your children
Knock at the door of your heart?
In my hatred,
Have you discarded Woman and Fragrance?
Have you learnt like me
To prefer Death to Life and Peace?
My Enemy!
We both are the weaponed passengers,
Of the same boat, floating
Into the ocean of boundless spaces.
Our interests are different
But catastrophe is the same;
Our follies are making the dreams infertile,
Of the generations,
Who will step into the world henceforth.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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