MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

The Sky Does Not Protest

In the early years of my flavoured childhood,
Could not I differ between an evil and a good,
And went to the forest afar with my age fellows,
To collect, to gather the dry sticks or fire wood.

In summer seldom the swishing winds blew,
The grains of sand and contents of dust flew,
And made the clean spheres reddish brown,
We bundled the fuel as the harsh winds grew.

Contending the winds, to home we returned,
On each step blurring, blowing blows burned,
And we rested on the way beside the old well,
Wherefrom damsels obtained water churned.

They talked themselves with the concern deep,
About some innocent murder, they did weep,
Then I understood why the sky grew vague,
Why did winds raise dust, why they did beep?

Ah! The sky now does not protest, nor frown,
Nor change colour from blue to reddish brown,
He too might have grown accustomed to blood,
Though Man is killed in each village, each town.

by Muhammad Shanazar

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