Muhammad Shanazar Poems

The dreams are not merely dreams,
Though they are often considered the fantasies,
And futile vain imaginings of the mind;
Yet they portend the stuff for the future.
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Ah! The blows of autumnal wind,
Cold and callous, have encroached at last,
They have made the leaves their victims.
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Nothing except wonder you behold,
Sitting among the modifiers of fate,
Radiating warmth, light of faith,
Transmitting through thin thread,
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Often my mind baffles,
And the stock of wisdom ends,
When I think with wonder upon
The amazingly perplexing figure.
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He who makes understands the scheme well,
The working riddles and amazing mysteries,
But the observers become stunned, tongue-tied,
On finding all rules of wisdom suspended.
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The fortunate make the choices well,
When chance and fate ring the bell,
And bring them to the moments of acceptance,
Their prayers are granted bounteously,
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To exaggerate is not the work of man,
I tell you fact, neither more or less
What incredible feelingly I did behold,
When my ethereal self was returning,
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How sometimes invisible secret eyes,
Capture marvellous fleeting visions,
And see the spectrum of reality,
But the wise regard a product of insanity.
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The rocking hands swayed me back,
The centuries full four and ten behind;
Placed me on the cold wet sandy bank,
At the time of dawn, half light, half night.
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Death dies herself and does not damage
Those who advance ahead underailed,
Following the prints of the wise pioneers
Whom He imparts the secrets of wisdom.
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