The Burial Of Tragedy Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

Recollection of childhood,
Takes me behind to the past,
The memories,
Sometimes make me sad,
And sometimes quite glad.

Now I recall a man, middle aged,
Mysteriously mad,
I knew not his origin, he ambled
Through the nearby town,
With disheveled hair,
Dressed in tattered brown,
He had unwashed body
With lean sable legs, and feet
Always with sole-broken boots.
Though his face was harrowed,
Yet emitted prints of learning.
He didn't accept coins
Or notes of charity, nor did he beg
As if these diminished his dignity.
He only lived on the pieces
Of fallen fruit, and often tumbled
On them with a grin,
And a smile devoid of pleasure;
He slept at night in an ancient,
Deserted inn beside the highway,
Made in the reign of Sher Shah Suri.

The man roved around the town,
With an old leather-bag,
Always pressing against his heart,
He never allowed anyone to touch,
As if he concealed some gems of treasure.
Ah! At one wintry night at last,
The cold caught him, the folk found
Him dead lying supine in the morn,
But still pressing the contents
To his heart; with ever growing curiosity
They unfastened the straps,
And brought out nothing
But his degree of graduation,
All crippled, and faded;
The forsaken graduate lay dead,
As if there lay an incarnated tragedy
Waiting for its funeral, and all mourners
Threw coins and notes of currency
For shroud and perfumes:
The necessary items of a decent burial.