Where Is Picasso Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

Why being astray
From the company of birds,
This dove sits depressed alone,
Hidden in the heap of dried leaves;
It seems as if she carries in the eyes,
An urge of a journey long,
A desires of a fresh dawn. she is
Pondering what is being done in the world,
The stuff of today existed on the previous day,
And which that will happen tomorrow
Will be the reflection either of today,
Or of the previous day.
Or of that which is buried in the existence,
Or of a destroyed town or a city.
Then this dove why is engrossed,
It seems as if that the country is bruised
With fears and apprehensions,
The trembling wings have sustained,
A few wounds from the iron hands
That is why she sits fearful and fretful.

Who knows how this happened,
There should be someone
To share her grief, her pain.
Had there been Picasso around
He might have made her innocence
And her clours a symbol of peace,
There should be someone of her own
To open new orisons to unfurl her wings,
And again he may give her
New zeal of flight to her feeble wings.
Alas! It would have ever happened,
A malady would have got a physician
Acquainted with pain.

In the shelter of her flight,
I see today a hidden volcano,
The era of forest is in vogue,
Her eyes that were once an abode of love,
There surge tides of fear.
The dove is tongueless,
And that which is occurring around her
Is beyond her forbearance,
Her depressed eyes only question to the skies,
Why her life is a punishment for the deeds undone,
Someone should justify why Mediterranean
Of agony surrounds her life,
Why wildernesses stretch all around,
Why every colour is grim today,
Someone should tell why odium
Has engulfed the world, someone should
Convince why the storm has blurred us all.

It is not obligatory that a man should
Quench his thirst by drinking blood of a man,
And every issue be resolved
With the device of war, though the residents
Of the world know war begins from the dark
Narrow recesses of hearts and minds
They spread, enlarge and intensify
Only darkness in the world.

In the same spectacle there waits the dove,
Sitting depressed, wounded and shrunk
In a heap dry leaves, perhaps waits
For the arrival of a fresh dawn,
And a soft touch of the hands of Picasso.

Written by Jagdish Prakash
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar