Half Century, Three And Half Wars

Half Century,
Three and half wars.
Our past is our future,
We have not denounced plying
With the mistakes of each other.

My body is the fodder of war,
An in front of my eyes wafts
My decomposed burnt corpse.

I am a song of those tongues
Which have been pulled out of the roots.
My hearing is being eroded
Waiting to listen to the arrival of good tidings.

Armed Forces
Pour into porches of my ears
The lead of Epic,
And Peace,
Has been flinging down exertion,
Into my eyes since centuries.

My Dreams
Deepen roots into my own soil,
In my possession,
I do not have any palace
In Europe.
My dear land that is being enslaved
Is my last abode.

I cultivate my own dreams,
Into the eyes of my own kids.
I urge for the life of peace,
And natural death.

How long we shall neglect our
The most fervent wishes?
At last
We shall have to place out
Our feet from the worn out
Torn shoes.

(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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