Muhammad Shanazar (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)
Oil, Water And Blood
When I sit all alone I meditate,
And ponder over the plight,
Of my dear descendants, a fear
Gnaws me, deepens to the marrow
Of my bones, depth of my soul.
I get lost into my own-being,
My mind becomes a battlefield,
I smell stinking burning flesh,
Smoke enters into my nostrils,
Blazes touch my sensitive body,
I hear rumbles, grumbles
Of dropped bombs, hooting ambulances,
Volleys of bullets bruise my ears,
Spurting missiles make me appalled,
Blood muddles into puddles,
Reeking wounds of hapless fighters,
Torment and cries shrivel my brain,
The environ becomes a mess,
And I behold an amphitheater
Of scattered shreds, the forests
Set on fire, metropolitans into ashes.
I don't depict any havoc of the past,
But images of encroaching warfare
The future winds bring to me.
Ah! This will happen, would that
I be there to hold back the rash hands
Pushing buttons of nuclear weapons
For oil, water and mines of minerals,
But blood won't be their concern.
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