MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

The Low Sobs

With shovels and pikes, mowers and scythes,
Alongwith parents, brothers, friends and folk,
Went I once a year to the sleepers’ Town,
To rake the houses afresh, bang the holes,
Fill the ditches, remove the weedy tufts,
Erect the fallen dispersed stones on both ends,
Scatter the pebbles on the soft dug soil,
Perform the service of host sprinkling sweet water,
Pray to God to make each a piece of Eden.

While departing, walking through to the home,
With the satisfied molten heavy heart,
I heard mysterious the low sobs,
As we suspirate after mournful wailing;
The subterranean voices conversed to me,
Thanking to memorize the day of sacrifices,
The fairest deed amid the sharp shining blades,
Hissing arrows, quivering lances and spear,
The most tragic moments when the Lords,
Proved faith by regaining the lost seats,
And when the long conceived diabolic devices,
Collapsed shattering to the endless bottom.

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