MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

A Chorus

When at the moon-lit cold nights
Came out we all the girls an boys,
To be amused with hide and seek,
The long low wailing howls of dogs,
And heinous shrills of the little owls,
Cast fear, I became horrid recoiled,
Threw each of us a handful of dust,
To the direction of ominous harbingers,
To impede an instant invading calamity.

Often then in the foggy morn we found,
A robbed body in the thick shrubs,
With perforated chest, broken bones,
Lacerated belly, or stabbed heart,
For a few pennies, or a ring of gold.
Some fierce animals in the human form,
Disturbed peaceful silence of the village,
As flings someone a big boulder,
From the height, down into the deep water,
And the waves raise commotion around.

The bold moved indignant, the timid horrified,
The women young and old circumscribed,
The widow with broken bangles dishevelled hair,
And moved around her, striking hands,
On the scared faces with force full,
The head clouts binding around the waists,
With loose lurking ends swaying behind,
Circled they bending with rhythmic beats,
Protested against the deed producing voices,
The clamorous cries of lamenting chorus,
Spread horror in the pastoral spheres,
Making death for the alive too frightful.

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