The Heavy Satchel
Often when after the hours of noon,
by Muhammad Shanazar
We were set free from the school,
I came out with no addition in the stuff,
Except scarred, lashed legs and back.
I found my mother awaiting in front,
Seeing my laming gait she examined,
The scars on my back, turning over,
The hind edge of my gray shirt.
She caressed my swollen hands,
I stood silent in front of her,
For she knew amid the high walls,
What had been imparted to me.
Giving me a quarter of loafy-sweet,
Consoled me to forget my pangs,
She never complained to the builders,
Against coercion upon her child.
She embracing me soaked my pain,
As sponge does, blotting fallen water,
Two tears moving down from her eyes,
Were enough to slacken her heart.
Then she helped me crossing the road,
Which took an enormous toll of blood,
Of my friends while being trampled,
On the gray hard metalled surface.
I running behind followed her,
With the heavy satchel on my back,
I had to walk miles six each day,
Often bare headed with the legs small.
Illiterate though she was yet me taught,
On the way when rested in the shade,
“Oh my son! Be respectful to the elders,
Be a precedent of gentility for others.”
She is now in the grave deep,
Her words still echoing resound,
In the valley of my rocky mind,
It is pity, I could not practise behind.