MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

The Murder

One dark night a man with thick moustaches,
And bulky body, sable faced, smoking clay pipe,
Occupied my residential plot, a sheltering place
Which gained I with long labour and toil of life.

I indignantly did advance to get that released,
He rashly chased, pursued to my rented home.
I ran for life, to confine myself in a room dark;
But he being offended did not cease to chase,
And entered gushingly breaking the feeble door.

And I mustering up courage did get in hands,
A rusty blunt axe with a rough loose wooden haft,
And wielded thrice on his head bald and thick.
I could see through slits his black bleeding brain,
The seat where devilish devices were nourished.
Blood gurgled, splattered and spattered the floor,
Then threw I the corpse head long on the road.

All around I heard lamenting cries and wailings,
All they cursed and reproved for the deed I did,
I harrowed pale with moisty forehead waited,
With suspended thoughts for the catastrophe.

The men of law came, demanded gold to keep
Me spare from the clutchy gripping claws of law,
But none could I offer, they dragged me in streets,
All looked with disgust and eyes of repugnance.
I wished that the earth should gap to swallow soon.

They brought me instantly to the arena of justice,
The judge looked with annoyance at the plight,
From behind the unarranged high pile of record.
I was announced the worst in the world of crimes,
The capital infliction was poured upon my head.

And without delay I was dragged to the gallows,
With a sudden terrible jerk found myself hanging,
The painful lacerating cutting cord round the neck,
Made me woke, I thanked, praised to glorious God,
For I neither did kill a scamp nor a virtuous one,
It was the region of nightmare that I went through.

by Muhammad Shanazar

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