The Funeral Hasn’t Yet Been Shouldered Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

(A Poem For Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto)

The Wind is shut
Behind the windows,
Dreams are imprisoned in the eyes,
And sounds of the soft fall of steps
Are chained on the way,
Palaces and mansions are wrapped,
In the embroidered shawls of silences,
In the discarded solitude,
Dust of the past ages,
Is reluctant to waft,
In front of dress less glow of lamp,

And the mirrors are giving bath,
To the insipid obsolete throne,
With the perpetual reflection of grief.

The funeral hasn’t yet been shouldered,
The wind stands still,
That fragrance of petals of pomegranate recalls her.
Canopies of the princes are deserted,
At the hunting zone,
The courtiers stand like statues,

The funeral hasn’t yet been shouldered,
The night has encroached,
Curves of the route have changed,
Into riddles,
And all hopes of return,
Are imprisoned by the Magic

The funeral hasn’t yet been shouldered,
The doors of palaces and mansions are hushed,
The pillars silent,
Dreams of the golden age,
Have been stitched in the cold eyes of the maids,
Who stand behind the curtains like puppets

Ancestry and lineage,
Crown and throne,
The disposition of solitude,
Grandeur and splendor,
The season of being princess, ministers
And bodyguards, elephants and infantry,
All lay behind with all prudence, till now.

The Darkness
Along with enormous forces
Has encamped all around
Against the tumbled dignities,
The eyes of its guards are,
As if made of stone

All doors of the city are locked from outside,
And each face bears an urge,
That they must be unbolted,
Silence is curious to listen,
To the voice of a general proclamation:
“Listen!
Each resident common and elite
Must listen to that the person
Who will enter
Into the un-ruled city, earliest tomorrow,
Will be our king”.

The herald waits impatiently for the orders,
But,
The funeral hasn’t yet been shouldered.

Written by Ayub Khawar
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar