On Doing Little Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

I stood all alone
On the round rock,
And beheld below
Into the valley,
The smouldering substance,
Smoke rose,
Dissipated into spheres,
Explosives
Blackened the ground,
And I smelt the stench
Of burning blood.

Then I saw descending,
A queue of angels,
From heights
Of the yonder mountain;
They were white, black and brown,
They were toddling down
To the singed valley,
And in hands they bore
Beacons of dreams.

They gathered around
One by one,
Sat jumbled holding
Their tiny bare feet,
All pricked, perforated
With the points of thorns;
And had a similar complaint
On the lips.

“You scattered
The seed of bushes,
On the path
Whereupon the children
Of Adam
Would have to pass,
You multiplied miseries,
You snatched
Richness, and fertility
Of the mother Earth,
You polluted
Rivers and rills,
You eroded
Mounts and hills,
Faults were yours
But we suffer though the penalty.”

I listened to them
Drooping my head,
And felt guilty
To my own conscience,
On scattering seed
Of thorny bushes,
Instead of planting
The cuttings of roses,
I was really ashamed
On doing little
For the angles:
The descending generations.

Yes! I confess,
I made the world
A store of weapons;
Its plains, the battlefields.
Oh! Inhabitants of the Earth,
It is time to revamp
Our mode of actions;
Let us remove
The fear of extinction,
By disposing of instruments,
Of conflicts, fights and wars,
Conventional, chemical and nuclear.

Let us eliminate,
The stench of explosives
By perfuming the world
With sweet fragrant roses.
Let us sing
A song of harmony:
Peace for the East, peace for the West,
Peace for the North, peace for the South,
And peace, peace for both of the anti-poles.

Let us hand over the world
To our children
Beautified and worth-living,
Let us be the residents,
Being makers and producers,
Architects and designers,
And manufacturers of commodities
Of love, of faith, of tolerance,
And not being the destroyers:
Killers and slayers.