A Monologue Of A Terrorist Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

Tonight sleep shall not overwhelmed me,
Second by second the night will slip to that morn,
And then there will be no morn in my fate.

Today when life is about to fold
The shawl of its breath,
My inner self woke, there will ensue emptiness,
In which I shall lose myself too,
Before the sun rises in the morn,
My numb body swinging on the gallows,
Will be consigned to the unknown corner,
Where no lamp will be enkindled,
No one will come to recite Fateha.

Tonight is boundlessly suffocating,
The sluggish ceiling fan supplies me with hot gusts,
My body is sweaty; the eyes pale, breathing cold,
Boundless depression,
Helplessness and haplessness surround me
Trembling from all around,
The pale faint light of the bulb
Infuses into my veins a growing dread.

Why could not at last I feel,
At that night why I did not feel,
This helplessness, misfortune,
Futility and bleakness,
When I placed on the face of a child,
Hot muzzle of my gun smelling with explosives,
And perforated each chest with a volley of bullets,
Leaving behind alive an innocent kid,
On the heap of dead bodies to seek
His future in vacancies with frozen eyes.

The same fear, the same distraction I felt,
In the cry uttered by the lips of that pregnant young woman, the cry collided against
The massive high mountains and left
A layer on the river of the frozen pain,
I hit her round belly ruthlessly,
And after making her husband a victim
Of my hatred, now I feel warmth
Of his fresh blood gushed out
In the form of shower of droplets.

This night is the most troublesome,
Each moment of which creeps and crawls like
A centipede on my conscience,
Makes me accountable for that evening,
When I sold my extensive faith,
Against a few pieces of creed soaked,
In violence, hatred and bigotry,
And held grenades, AK 47, and Launchers,
In those hands which had scent,
Of the swaying farms of zafran.

That evening I mortgaged, and kept
My dreams, my passions, my perceptions,
With some merciless ominous shadow.

O! Valleys,
O! Mountains,
O! Winds forgive me for I lost and spoiled,
Your blessings, your benedictions,
And I sold your atmospheres,
Your beauties, your splendour,
Against fiery madness.

I do not have answer to be right or in the wrong,
But there was something acid like
That had been going deep into my chest,
In those days, and nights,
In all seasons and years,
That perhaps melted my conscience.
What should I do for repentance today
Again has risen up all of sudden in my heart.

Pray for me when tomorrow,
My soul will bid farewell to my carnal existence,
I may regain the same spotless innocence,
The same treasure of pure conscience,
Which I lost in that evening,
When I sold fragrance of life against
The stench of explosives.