Beneath The Ossa Of Dust Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

(On the event when five women buried alive)

What kind of hearts
We contain in the chests!
What kind of thoughts
We bear in the minds!
What kind of blood
Flows through our veins!
For the loins and the wolves,
The rats and cats, the dogs and hogs:
The ferocious animals
That bear the brutal hearts,
Dare not bury their fellows alive.

I weep, weep and weep!
I wail, wail and wail!
On the deed you did,
On the crime you committed;
And those who remained silent spectators,
Are the accomplices too,
The collaborators,
In execution of the most heinous,
And monstrous deed.

The daughters of Eve and Adam,
Who are akin to us
As mothers, daughters, sisters
And companions of life
Have been maltreated,
Buried alive by the so-called elites:
Cream of the crop,
Who are men in forms
But wolves in spirits,
The sky might not have witnessed
The spectacle more horrible,
More hideous since centuries.

They might have suffocated
Feeling themselves beneath
The Ossa of dust,
Blocking the respiratory tracks,
All helpless, unaided
With palpitating, breathing hearts,
And fearful minds
Wrapped in the brutal murkiness,
Yearning for a single
Fresh breath or a gust of wind.

Where are the laws?
Where are the morals?
Yes; they exist,
But for the back-broken
And not for the feudal lords:
The snakes sitting coiled
Upon the heaps of gold,
They are privileged
To do with liberty
What their wanton hearts wish,
No punishment:
Terrestrial or celestial them scars.

Ah! They buried
Five women in the dust alive,
Should we weep and wail,
Or wail and weep,
We still live in the Stone Age
Or in an era much worse than that,
We are no more in the modern age;
Imaging a while,
Place yourself in the place of those women
Buried alive with the beating hearts,
Pulsating pulses
What a horrible experience
They might have undergone.

The more I think
The more my head begins to pound
And my despised heart wishes to live,
In the hovels beneath the ground,
In the company of the beasts:
Less brute and less appalling,
They may tear me to pieces
But will not bury me alive,
With beating heart and pulsating pulse
Beneath the Ossa of dust,
Blocking the respiratory tracks.