The Robots (An Observation At The Centralized Marking) Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

Human robots, men of mechanical age,
Bending the heads cast down the eyes,
Seek; sort out the errors of others,
Shutting eyes to the plagues of their own.
Scratch, scribbles pages making them red,
Like torn stained cloak of the sinner,
Condemned, stoned in the ancients times.

Their hands move, fingers flip the leaves,
Rebelling the command of their own mind,
Work with deep wrinkled irrisible faces,
Devoid of sweet smile, with prints of pangs.

Advance they to the Heads with timid hearts,
Holding breath for approval of the pen green,
Suppressing courage, and subduing valour,
As a rebuked, recoiled hungry child,
Goes ahead to the sustaining parents,
To beg pardon of the fiftieth wrong,
Or as a murderer confronts shrinking,
The justice on the day of decision,
Yielding, submitting the existence whole.

They move around, the figure ninety nine,
And work like an ox harnessed in front,
At the well, moving round and round,
With wrapped eyes following no direction,
Perceiving the long distance covered
Might bring him at the destined point.
But it is pity, in the evening it dawns,
Their dreams shatter, finding at the same spot,
They had started the journey where from.

Had they not had breaking burden on backs,
Would have been masters of their own will;
And might have performed the daring deeds,
Though less paying yet more soul satisfying,
More fruitful than re-revising the scripts.