Who Is Behind The Curtain? Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

(Written In the political background of 1977 to 1988)

Upon the pale branches of bushes
In the woods,
The sleep of autumn is intensifying,
The small wing-clipped birds creep,
And seek for fragrance
Of the songs mixed into dust,
Their nests have scattered into straws.

The wild leopards are now on roads,
At crosses of the city,
They rove at day time,
And in the shawl of night,
In the dens,
They huff squeezing doe with relish,
Between their legs;
And elephants in the marshy lakes,
Wash blackness of their deeds,
As donkeys rob themselves on the dusty earth.
The flocks of foxes coming out of dreams,
Of the bunches of grapes,
Smell aroma of dishes served on the round tables

The leopards with fire scattering eyes,
Enkindle lamps of servile respect,
They have surrounded the offices,
And dogs, yes brown dogs stand alert,
Like ever to guard their safety


Around the city at the main spots
There sit herds of wolves,
Well acquainted to personas of their own,
They see eye to eye, wait when one will wink
And the other will tear it to pieces.

The swarm of curtailed wounded birds,
Wobbles, drags itself,
Pass raising slogans through streets of the city,
“Reveal, reveal the secret! ”
The monkey-tamer proclaims,
“You will have to wait a little more,
The secret will be out! ”
From the hollowness of the tree of time,
The woodpeckers all of sudden flutter,
“See awhile
Who is behind the curtain at last! ”

Who is behind the blind?
What is behind the blind?
Who will see and understand?
Why the acrobats of the circus,
Have dropped curtain till now?
Why thousands of wounded clipped birds,
In profound silence,
Enfolded in the blanket of mono-faced days,
Look at the blind mournfully?
How should they know that blind is behind the blind,
And who will see behind the blind,
They are only aware that
There overspreads bodiless silence
From forest to fort
Passing through negritude,
It huffs,
Entangling itself with thorns
Of the thick bushes of darkness,
Sniffs and seeks for fragrance
Of the melodies mixed into dust.

One day,
These wounded clipped birds were brought,
Clad with the noise of whistles and sirens.

O! My God,
This is the spectacle,
Never has been depicted yet
In books with entire truth,
It has only been revealed
To the jars of my eyes,
In the quagmire of dark days
And nights of eleven years,
Merging with the golden-jade songs of the birds,
Surging from the jars of my eyes
Then it was lapped over the each pore of the wall of city

O! My God,
It is enough,
I need a rain, from the pieces of cloud
Sent by You,
I want to wash my oozy eyes,
And want to weep heartily,
On the history of my own era.


Written by Ayub Khawar
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar