The Sons Owe A Lot
The trickling fountains of the land,
by Muhammad Shanazar
Douse thirst of parched throats,
The waterfalls sing the melodies,
The deep forests shelter
Stretching overhead the canopy of shadows
On the journey through the sweltering times.
The spheres provide with fresh airs to inhale,
And the plains lay a grassy carpet under our feet.
Now I am haunted by fears,
Numerous grimy stained hands are stretching,
And evil eyes are gazing at you my motherland;
Now you claim something precious,
More precious than the ordinary sacrifices,
And we being hapless have joined our hands
With aliens’ forgetting all your nourishments,
We received from the treasure of your chest,
Just like disloyal sons who turn their eyes away
From the aged mother.
I too am one of them, helpless feeble and weak,
Though no one heeds my cries yet I shall shout,
To remind them all that the land whereupon we are born,
Is the mother and the sons owe a lot
To defend her every inch,
Even with the last reserved dropp of blood.