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
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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