Poems by Prof. Muhammad Shanazar
Silvery Days, Moonlit Nights
War has killed
In front of my wide opened eyes,
My silvery days and moonlit nights,
It has put cumbersome stone on my sentiments,
They flourish no more like grass beneath a stone,
Only they huff like an exhausted buck,
My mournful cries ever remain stifled,
In the roar of thundering guns.
Now I dig graves to bury their bodies,
In the graveyard of my heart.
Dancing death has trampled everything,
It has made the world desolate, muddled,
No one thinks beyond today,
No one takes part in the errands of life,
The people have forsaken the links of propinquity,
And they talk with the squealing sounds.
I have the cursed object in front of me,
But I don’t know who brought it up,
And how it became the rival of humanity,
I don’t have the courage to perforate its nose,
And to put into it a length of cable,
I don’t want to risk my life, nor gripe openly,
I am resolute to keep silence, not to unseal my lips,
Though it goes on incessantly,
Killing my silvery days and moonlit nights.
An Old Muck-Hauler
(Written on the first morn of 2017)
When the last sun of year was descending down,
And reddish crimson twilight prevailed
The whole orison,
I came back exhausted from my own job,
My head pounded, my body pained,
And I rested on the sofa,
Placed beside the heating apparatus,
And soon I began to snooze.
Another world opened before me,
As if it was some world of dream,
It was the time of sunset, half-light, half-night,
And I stood along a straight highway,
Of moderate width, neither too wide nor too narrow,
Leading to where I didn’t know,
Occasionally men, women and children
Passed by in haste,
And sometimes animals of all kinds,
Though I stood at the brim of the road
Yet did not join them.
Then I saw a giant old man
Enormous bulk and body he had,
He hauled a muck-cart loaded
With numerous packs
Bound in rough pieces of cloth,
Blood seeped out of them splattered the road.
Plight of the hauler was miserable,
His wore the clothes made of some sturdy fiber,
But all blood stained,
Like long worn-out clothes of a butcher,
His skin was rough hard and crude,
But a man of strength and stamina he seemed to be,
He hauled the muck-cart straight
Applying all force on the belt on his belly,
And halted he when out of breath he was.
I walked along too in curiosity to see the stuff,
And I spoke to know who he was
And where he was hauling the muck-cart to.
In fact I felt pity for him
And thought to give him some relief,
In dragging contents of the load.
I said, “May I help you?”
“Who are you?”
“Where are you dragging the muck to?”
But he spoke nothing.
He went on with all his strength and forbearance,
Though it was cold yet at intervals he stopped
And wiped popped out sweat,
And after short awhile he stopped,
He looked at the half descended sun, all red-hot,
Turned to me and spoke to answer to my queries,
“May God bless you,
Be away, come not near the cart,
Lest you should stain you clothes.
The last year when I came,
My body was petal-like delicate
And face shone like the moon,
All the world rejoiced, greeted me, but today
I am alone, no one is there to bid good-bye,
It is my last turn,
The blood dripping muck is the flesh,
Shredded bodies and bones
Of the Syrian men, women and kids,
I am one of the hundred sons
Of 21st Century, I am 2016,
It is getting dark and I have to move on
To my own country, the Eternity”.