Muhammad Shanazar

Veteran Poet - 1,176 Points (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

Impacts Of Horror - Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

After the uproarious tiring activity of the day,
I rested my exhausted head upon the pillow,
And for a while shut up the lids of my eyes,
So that I could peep into my inner self,
To evaluate the endeavour I performed,
From dawn to dusk setting aside,
The principal task: to devote my existence,
For the fellow beings, to remove their pains.

A faint drowsiness occupied my mind,
That began to oscillate making me forgetful,
Of the conscious world of man that began to appear,
No more than a shadow of a dream.

A carriage I beheld advancing towards me,
Approached gliding as if it was weightless,
The coachman though was not human,
Yet had mild countenance, with snow-white,
Beard and brows; his hair flowed down,
Fell upon his shoulders with tight folded wings.

He signaled me to have a ride in the chariot,
And I settled in the cushioned seat,
And it began to advance with moderate move,
The scenes that I might faintly recollect,
Began to move behind.
We headed with no jerk or jolt,
Very close to the surface of the land,
And no conversation took place between,
At a certain spot the chariot rested,
And I found upon a murky ground,
Many children sitting very close,
The distant seemed like dots,
They were silent with harrowed pale faces,
And some half naked shivering with chill,
Their eyes were impressionless like a burnt piece of the mirror.

Then again the journey commenced,
This time a little faster than before,
I got grim glance of a serpentine river,
That mingled somewhere into the remote sea,
After passing over the fire gurgling mountains,
Again the chariot rested upon the ground,
And this time I beheld the collection of young men,
All in twenties or thirties they were,
Their faces were harrowed pale and eyes impressionless too,
And some of them had scars if they had fought,
Some extended war on the far flung domain,
For their structures carried the weight of exhaustion.

Then the third phase of the journey began,
Again a curvaceous river we had to cross,
Over the burning hills and forest we passed,
I smelt the stench and smoke entered though my nostrils,
Blazing air touched the flesh of my body,
It was almost the time of sunset when we landed,
In front of a dark cave in the basement of a mound,
The coachman again signaled which meant, “Come down”,
And gestured to have a glance of the inner part of the fissure,
I saw nothing except incense serpents and scorpions,
The serpent moved with the lashing tails,
And the scorpion with their stiff curved stings;
And for the first time the winged coachman spoke,
“God does not inflict unjust inflictions,
These are your doings, now taste the produce.”
When I came out of the mystical world,
The impacts of horror were upon my forehead.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Poem Edited: Thursday, March 10, 2011


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