A Dialogue With The Man Of New Century
O! Modern man
Of the new century,
Resting in my back bone,
Waiting anxious,
For the moment of creation.
I know,
In exultation to become a flower
From the seed,
Your tiny feet are restless;
To touch the terrestrial planet of the Earth,
But you wait a little,
Stay in the very tavern of creation.
On the creasy existence,
Of this old Mother Earth,
The environ of life
Is not yet congenial.
Sense of hearing
Is becoming infertile,
On being lavished
The words of disgrace;
And thousands of un-reflected facts
Of life are perturbed
To encounter truth for themselves.
Though there is a boundless pleasure
In your graceful creation,
From my own blood
And essence of bones,
Yet I wish lest you should step
Into such a home,
Flowers of which that blossom
In you own lawn you do not have
The right to claim your own.
Would you like, your mother
Deprived of medical
And nutritious facilities
During the painful process
Of you birth, at the sill
Of a very expensive hospital,
Collecting in the life blessing lips
All unripe kisses,
Of your share may die panting
Tossing and unattended.
O! God protect us,
Lips of the life imparting hospitals,
Are yet locked and all angles
Employed on security
Of the breathing fellows are on strike,
For the more privileges,
But unaware of felicity of the holiday,
The Angle of Death
Is busy in picking up the yellow flowers,
From the mustard farms,
With his death acquainted hands.
Who should tell him that all over the world,
No one works more than eight hours.
Life is being ground
Amid mill-stones of the overtime.
O! My child, though attraction
Of the Earth is pleasing,
Yet in the infertile yard of the school
Seeding of the new flowers
Is forbidden;
And childhood of most of the children,
Is passing with
Hunger
Illness
Ignorance
Shelterless ness
Starvation
And playing with toys of war.
Your future has been mortgaged,
In the lockers of IMF.
Will you sell water in the buses,
Or polish shoes on the paths,
Instead of resting
In the blossoming spring
Of the lap of your motherhood?
Will you like to be branded like me
Indebted by birth,
For the loan which was never spent on me?
If luckily you are born alive,
From the exterminating womb
Of your mother,
There is the possibility
That police might arrest you
Without warrants;
Or murder you in a fictitious encounter,
And eyes on the spot of occurrence
May shut their lids tight,
At last who will wish to eat
The steaks of his own tongue.
O! Man of the new century,
The atmosphere is yet replete with
Prejudice and stink of explosives;
The air is not worth-breathing.
In such a season as this is
It is impossible to blossom
The fresh roses of your thoughts.
Calls from the mosques,
With the help of damned speakers,
Are engaged in the war of sounds,
To let the rival down;
And on the cities
The plague of pollution is descending.
Tummy-touching servile tongues,
Are protesting against the dish-antenna;
The matters against war,
Poverty,
Hatred,
Illness,
Ignorance,
And exploitation,
Have not yet been included in priorities.
More than half of the world,
Is self-dependent
In production of children
And the remaining half in explosives;
The compelled decrepit refugees,
Carrying on their heads the packs of homesickness,
Are waiting for their return.
Tarry awhile!
The mother Earth has apologized,
To carry the weight of more human beings.
Future of the earth
Is not yet secure
In the hands of human beings,
For equal right of all inhabitants
On sources of the universe,
Has not been yet recognized.
On sudden breakage
Of one side of the scale of strength,
The lender of the world,
Is selling with half scales
To the beggar-like customers,
Commodity of the New World Order,
On the price of self offered terms;
And in consequence of fear and rumble
Of nuclear explosions,
The Earth went through an abortion;
And now in the womb of infertile soil,
Only radiation breathes.
Listen!
The future of man on the Earth
Is yet uncertain, and he did not learn
How to prefer life to death;
The armies not yet prepared to surrender
Their preeminence,
And the mother of the martyred
Residing in the neighbourhood
Is not willing to concede “wars are not sacred”.
Man is not yet prepared
To give priority the problems of war,
And survival of the Earth in the agendas.
Armies are yet busy day and night
In preparation of waging such a war
As perchance there will be no one to determine,
The Conqueror or the conquered,
Once its bugle is sounded.
The wish for peace is smouldering,
Amid the half burnt cigarettes in the ashtray,
Lying on the table of the dialogue.
My babe!
Impede your impatient soul traveling to the earth,
Overpowered by a thrill of creation;
Lest in the journey between the backbone,
And shelter of your mother’s womb,
Your desire to materialize should turn into nothing;
And you could demand from no one
Compensation of your blood.
Stay!
First we should decide that peace,
Food,
Education,
Freedom,
Happiness,
And on the hygienic environment,
Either all have equal right or no one.
Stay friend!
I to get a guarantee of life
And survival of the earth have submitted,
An entreaty across the seas,
And your being or not being,
Is conditional with acceptance
Or rejection of the appeal.
Though your impatience to emerge,
Is justified yet I can not greet you abasing
On the heap of ammunition;
I do not like that after descending
Your chariot on the Earth
You could not avail yourself,
The chance to cut,
The cake of the first birthday.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Added by Poetry Lover
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