Who knows how sooner the journey ends,
by Muhammad Shanazar
The clouds what direction the wind rends,
On each moment of the fleeting days,
The sacred substance coats our highways.
Spectrum too horrible and pathetic scenes,
On this or that spot, our eyes certainly meet.
Ah! Painful, no more than painful occurred,
A day before who slept on the beds soft,
Lay on the ground, upon the pricking stones,
Besides the hard surfaced gray road,
Some prostrate, some supine, some on the sides,
Still ran down trickling warm blood,
Mixing into earth like too cheap substance,
Ah! How sooner would change into dust.
Counted I them all, they were ten and two,
Placed in a line straight, all dreadfully red,
Among those lay an infant, too gruesome to see,
With crushed head, eyes out, scattered brain,
As over-ripe melon bursts when falls onto
The ground, scatter all marrow and core.
Still griped he tight in the hand right,
A baby doll, gored and stained all,
Lay beside the mother with opened belly,
Entrails out, all shriveled, head scratched.
Whose was the chopped arm I did not know.
Plucked out from joint of shoulder it was,
Guessed I no doubt, it was of a bride,
Hardly three days old, wore the bangles of gold,
Had on the hand fresh deep colour of Hina,
Unfaded spots on the fingers, on the knuckle,
But all painted red, too abominable to see.
Ah! What enormity of pang they suffered,
Did only the victims know, they could not tell.
They died no doubt but before the death,
Entrusting dependants to the waves of time.
Were they murdered or died deaths natural?
The question haunted in mind time and again,
And got a response, all is not causeless,
Our reckless rash deeds always do bear,
The fruit too bitter to taste, too horrible to see.
He who is just exercises just, does nothing ill,
To the fair world and the dearest creature,
Those who die such a dreadful death,
Are murdered, indeed they are murdered,
Accountable are those who rule the lands,
Do jest to the just, pollute His fair scheme,
And issue to the blinds, The License of Death.