August 1, 2011 Off By Fried Guest

The folk of my village
Have progressed,
They have made the houses,
On the imported designs,
Much more sophisticated
Than the older ones,
Made of mud and stones,
With very low walls,
Over which the neighbourers
Could pass the saucers
To share the meal.
Now motors hum
Through the streets
Where voices of animals
Goats and sheep
Cows, Bulls and buffalos,
Milk being churned were heard.

Men and women have changed
But the seasons come and go,
On the previous modes,
Spring and Monsoon sojourn
On the meadows
Fragrant grass grow,
Wild trees blossom, dew falls
And rains pour down
To give them wash,
And they sway in the sun
When the wind blows,
But no animal is seen
To graze the green objects,
No shepherd moves around,
With a rotator to twist strands,
Of fibre into the double cord
Spun to weave the cots.
Older women aren’t seen
With the mowers or scythes,
Or going to the homes, at noon
Bending backs with loads
Of stuffed sacks of green grass,
To feed the awaiting stock at home,
In consequence the nation drinks,
Milk of chemical contents.

– Muhammad Shanazar

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