MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

The World

The world is an apt wide moving market,
Around a huge enormous shining globe,
That makes the trade smooth and plain,
Brightens its stalls, shops and taverns,
Casting dark shades on the opposite zones.

Whereas we all men and women,
Are either sellers or customers.
Who often forget the route of return.
In the mazy perplexing streets,
Crowded with men and women of commerce,
Whose rash overhasty movements,
Result in collisions wounding one another,
Bleed, sweat along the busy streets,
The indifferent passers pass by callously,
Jeering at the blood welling out.

All trifles sell on the rates high,
But it is pity how cheap is man’s life,
Character, honour the precious items,
Despite knowing that gold and wealth,
Cannot be taken to the native home,
How bravely we bargain to purchase!

By building, furnishing the mansions high,
We think them to be the real commodities,
The prime objectives we are born for.
But soon it proves a conceit base.

Youth time is the best period of trade,
Then real sunless course certainly begins,
After the lights go out, blinding us all,
Man enters in creeping, goes out riding,
Sleeping, supine upon the shoulders,
With empty hands, close eyes, silent tongue,
Amid the moaning hearts, cascading eyes.

Those who merchandize, gold and riches,
Instead of bargaining the acts of charity,
Repent but too late, they find the alley dark,
Growing more doleful as they advance,
Tormenting fear always increases evermore.
Only the good deeds done to humanity,
Coated with patience, love and faith,
Become the road lights and bronze torches,
Leading to highway mounting to heaven,
The zones of felicity and permanence.

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