MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

On The Drum Beat

On listening to the measured sound,
Of the distant drum beat,
With sweeping sounds of the pipes.
On the other end of the village,
On wedding of couple,
I was carried out of myself.
And thrilling blood ran into veins,
With the sense of vitality.

I lost my control on me,
As if my limbs were not mine.
For the spell queer.
Worked on me and my fellows,
Of the same age,
Who being charmed ran,
Attracted by the drum beat.
As pleasing smell attracts,
The bees, flies and moths.

Each taking two rods wooden,
Hastened to the cottage of groom,
Gathering around the beater,
In the airy yard,
Who stood pivoted in the center,
Black and tall, with pink faded turban,
His rhythmic hands beat,
On vibrating ends of the drum,
Hanging with his neck,
With long leather belts.

We danced and danced in circle,
In ecstatic heightened spirit.
Our hands, feet and limbs,
Mechanically moved with the beats,
Among the chorus of wedding songs,
And clapping of the adorned ladies.

Striking of the wooden rods,
Produced sounds harmonious,
All dancing and cheering,
Were carried out of themselves,
To the fairy-lands of strange joys.

Then all of sudden,
The beating hands stopped,
And we came down to the earth,
Falling head-long, as wings of a bird,
Flying into the zones high,
Are clipped short,
So for him ceases everything,
When dashes to the ground
The broken spell of rhythmic beats,
Brought us again,
Into the world of woes and pangs.

by Muhammad Shanazar

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