The Distributors - Poem by Muhammad Shanazar
I bother not who regards me,
A split being or a psycho-case,
Telling you fact, undoubted fact.
Once my ethereal inner self,
Took a flight, landed on the plains,
Remote, too far to explore,
With the material means of wisdom,
Found myself in a spacious barrack.
The wide floor and thick walls,
Were made with rectangular sills,
Of stone hard, gray and quite old.
Covering with the white sheets,
A few men in deep silence,
Lay resting on the low cots;
In the slight dark as we feel,
In the deep shade of a thick grove,
A slight after the sunset or before rise;
It was dusk or dawn, I could not decide.
Wishing to have a view of the outer world,
Went up the steps leading to the roof,
Saw the world much bigger than ours,
Vast sky with a few remote stars,
Emitting out light thin and faint,
Looking around a man I found,
The poor fellow not much reverend,
In the eyes of inhabitants of the world,
With whom I have been acquainted,
Since my playful child-hood.
He by profession was a barber,
He was distracted strolling about,
The ridges on his faced exposed his heart,
He told me his worry, cause of confusion,
Making a gesture to a small room,
Accosted me to plead his case,
To an elderly person resting there,
That from the womb of his wife,
He had no delicious fruit of life.
On his plight I could not refrain,
Went straight into the small room,
Where I saw a humble man resting,
In a chair with a book large,
Opened wide upon his knees,
Wearing brown simple dress,
Serious gentle looking had he,
With the knees bent, I sat in front of him,
On the floor, covered with a mat,
Made of dried palm woven leaves.
I said confessing “ I am a servant,
And meek disciple of those great-men,
Who lead to the glorious path,
Of righteousness approved by Almighty,
This friend of mine does not have,
A child to remember his name;
Pray to God to bestow him one.”
At my request he wrote something
In the book of fate opened wide
Nodding his head that meant, “ Yes.”
After a year I met the friend,
On asking he happily me told,
He had a baby daughter two months old.
I exposed him not what I had seen,
But firmly felt, it revealed to me,
God is the creator of all treasures,
His sacred beings are the distributors,
The fate writers, subservient secret hands,
Have the authority to bless more or less,
But do nothing against the consent of God.
Comments about The Distributors by Muhammad Shanazar
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You