MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)

To The Eid Crescent


Oh, Crescent!
Be blessed with the moments pleasant,
May flourish you ahead on the path.

Oh, Crescent!
Glow on their tents,
Who move trench to trench,
Since ages afar from the dear ones;
Dive into their hearts,
Who pant in the narrow cells of hospitals;
Bless them with tidings,
Who in the hope to be released,
Suffer the pangs of their innocence.
Dwell in the eyes of a damsel,
Who suffers ceaseless infliction
Of parting pangs;
For the season of courting pleasures.

Oh, Crescent!
Shine on those shelves,
Where upon the toys declining
The reach of innocent hands pant for life.

Oh, Crescent!
Seed the dreams of tomorrow
In the sightless eyes,
And wash with your own beams,
The sheets of darkness.
Collect the tears
Of the mothers of the young men,
Who departed to the remote lands.

Oh, Crescent!
See the wounds,
Of Afghanistan, Kashmir and Palestine,
Spread light on the spots,
In Iraq where wailings are all-around,
Glow on those heads and graves,
Who tasted peace, stepping ahead
From life to the region eternity.

Oh, Crescent!
Let there be no wailings at the moon-night,
The earth and the sky may sleep well,
And complain not against Man.
Dive into my words, agony and mirror of heart,

Oh; Crescent!
Garland roses and petals;
Again weave afresh the fabric of dreams.


Oh, Crescent!
These skyscrapers of the capital,
The cages of humanity are indifferent,
To the rise and ornaments of the moon-light,
Unfamiliar are to you, the sky kissing,
New York, London, Geneva and Paris.
Shower your light,
Where smelly explosives singed,
The rosy cheeks of children;
Shine where breasts of mothers,
For the miracle of milk drops,
Look to the firmament,
Where the warring valiants go ahead thrilling,
On the beat and turn not to see behind,
When they come out of their houses.
How many damsels with pieces of adoration,
Wait for them,
But they are not habitual of retreat disgraceful;
Their eyes surge when gurgle,
The filled pitchers and containers at the wells.

Oh, Crescent!
The Eid has brought all blessings along with,
But brings no one the tidings,
From those who were alive the last year.

Oh, Crescent!
Bestow upon those,
The honour of splendid death whose eyes,
Never surged despite containing tears.


The bangles jingle,
The bazaars scent the smell of Hina,
And fragrance of Anchals,
Flow in rhythm the laughter,
In shops, in front of stalls and carts.
And some where the damsels,
Being adorned in the mirrors,
And the wrists with the rings,
Cherish the dreams in their eyes;
And somewhere showers of smile,
Flow upon the begging lips.

Oh, Crescent!
How many are the houses,
Of which the lights are extinguished,
And blow ashes from the hearths cold.
Intelligible are the ways of distribution,
Of God Almighty.
How many flowers seek the prints,
Existence of their own,
With shivering extremities;
And some sway belated carrying the toys,
While other watch them with looks astonished.
What complain watery eyes and crusty lips?
Some look to the glossy shoes,
In such a way as if one will blot,
Moist of the shining polish.

Oh, Crescent!
Have you ever seen a waiting eye,
That after your appearance,
Listens to the horn of every vehicle,
Coming from the city as if Jesus listens to
The beating hearts of the patients.
Who is the panting virgin that sings,
A heart- stabbing love song.

Oh, Crescent!
Blessed to you your existence,
But spectrums surround the poet’s heart,
Interpret his plight too in front of God,
Who has forsaken his smiles.
And is living for others even today.


Oh, Crescent!
There had been times when you appeared,
With the echoes of blessed tidings,
And greetings of peace.
When I was a lad, foremost I heard of you,
In the fairy tales of my mother,
And when age grew you spoke in fiction,
Ghazals, panegyrics and poems,
And sometimes in dream the desire,
To touch you waved; extended I my hands;
But boundless agony became my fortune,
That you ever remained out of my reach.
Then Man stepped into your yard,
The moon clay is now in the museums,
The men in the coats neat,
The killers of nature, carrying microscopes,
Are at work in the laboratories,
You are now in the tales no more,
I know not where those ghazals are,
Poems and fiction, in which I touched you.

Oh, Crescent!
On being compelled by immodest nature,
Of Man never migrate as the birds do,
In case your misfortunes increase,
And dust of the earth goes to the last extent,
The poet’s heart is the safest refuge;
I will receive you with open heart,
With the waves of desires dancing on blood.

by Muhammad Shanazar

Comments (1)

tim donald is a Nazi.