On Doing Little
I stood all alone
On the round rock,
And beheld below
Into the valley,
The smouldering substance,
Smoke rose,
Dissipated into spheres,
Explosives
Blackened the ground,
And I smelt the stench
Of burning blood.
Then I saw descending,
A queue of angels,
From heights
Of the yonder mountain;
They were white, black and brown,
They were toddling down
To the singed valley,
And in hands they bore
Beacons of dreams.
They gathered around
One by one,
Sat jumbled holding
Their tiny bare feet,
All pricked, perforated
With the points of thorns;
And had a similar complaint
On the lips.
“You scattered
The seed of bushes,
On the path
Whereupon the children
Of Adam
Would have to pass,
You multiplied miseries,
You snatched
Richness, and fertility
Of the mother Earth,
You polluted
Rivers and rills,
You eroded
Mounts and hills,
Faults were yours
But we suffer though the penalty.”
I listened to them
Drooping my head,
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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Added by Poetry Lover
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