| Sunday, 13 June 2021 | Print
Mashuk Ibn Anish
Now, It’s not the time to be silent,
Let spit on them for the sake of those impendence dying eyes,
the Israeli child killer-soldiers who look like human beings.
Let the eyes of my innocent orphans bear witness that,
I did not succumb to fear,
I have accepted death as a mores of rights.
Now, It’s not the time to be silent,
I will raise my voice in front of the Israeli killers
in this war between hyenas and humans.
One day people will snatch the victory.
The huckster of humanity
Like the sex worker by a hired bouncer.
The worst bastards than prostitutes sit in the dark more than the blind and talk about light!
Will piss on standing on every page of your fabricated theories by
the Palestine child-warriors
,
Looking forward to that day.
Are you still silent dear, Mashuk?
A poor orphan poet for the position and title!
Wake up: I’m calling you Gunter Grass, don’t be silent,
Protest like Bilal Habashi
not for falling under the crushing of Abu Jahl
for the establishment of truth.
Not all flowers are adorable.
Some flowers bloom
Beauty vanishes in emptiness.
The fragrance in the air
Falls in the ground.
Some
Scented petals.
Some flowers
for devotional
become transcendental!
Even domestic life
Become a monk
Some get lost in time.
Love also melt
like Shackle and chain
squeezing the trachea.
In love
Until the kitchen…
yet, people get tired.
All
Pots and pans
Not worthy of cooking.
Some left behind
For love in future
in the shop.
Not all gender have lingam and yoni
Some are worthless.
All vaginas
Not full of motherhood
Always.
Without hesitation, I bear witness.
All man and women are offspring
By birth.
All flowers
Are not for change of garlands
Appropriate for bestowal.
Yet; The flowers bloom.
Not have a family life, yet people love
Infertile! yet people do have sex
fully devoted physically.
What else fascinating than human?
So I am; a race of human
So I am; I want to be a poet
Until the end.
(When our freedom fighters were given their chest before the gun in 1971)
When the hyenas attacked my soul, my motherland,
Even then the moon rose over the sky of our village,
I keep the moon in my eyes.
A flower of hope blooms in the morning,
It has no fragrance;
But, there was a burning smell of gunpowder.
I urge;
Give us back the moonlight,
and let it effulgent again through our soul.
Give us back the footsteps of our children
Translated by Faruk Ahmed Roni
All rights reserve © Poet Mashuk Ibn Anish
Posted 10:56 am | Sunday, 13 June 2021
globalpoetandpoetry.com | Faruk Ahmed Roni
