Symphony
Of all times
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This long poem is actually a Screenplay of our whole world which is in the clutches of war and terrorism for years. The latest example of the brutality of mankind, which humanity is facing worldwide, is Ukraine and Russia's war.
In this poem, the peace lovers from each and every corner of the earth will see this screenplay directly, and you will see it through your heart and soul. Please Watch it.
Ayub Khawar - Pakistan
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Gracious guests have arrived
Famous South Asian historians,
Poets, music scholars, dignitaries of literature, critics of arts,
Vocalists and musicians of global fame,
Representatives of musical houses
Painters, sculptures,
People devoted to art and culture,
Civil celebrities,
Electronic media, film technicians
Ambassadors belonging to
The European Continent, America,
Central Asia and the Third World Countries,
Including admirers
Poetry and music; are all present here.
In front of them, on the stage,
Orchestra, sitting in their predetermined positions
In different postures.
I go on witnessing this magical spectacle
Through the lenses of different cameras.
From here the artists appear to be filled with astounding acumen,
They emit extreme delight,
Their shining faces are intensely wrapped
In a mysterious bliss,
Inexplicable tenacity and prudence.
In the background
By the designers, color is drawn
On the pattern
Of great masters of cubism and abstract art that filled it with the cuttings of horrific news,
Wedges of dried out flesh
And blood burned buildings,
The scorched skeletons of living beings,
Broken but appalled innocent eyes.
This is flat land,
On the highest peak,
Of a gigantic mountain range.
On one side of this smooth field,
Is a Milky-White building,
With a stage set in front of it.
A few are busy talking
With a gentle murmuring,
Half spoken sentences, sophisticated jokes,
And joyful giggling.
The host invites the spectators to be attentive,
For a few moments.
“Ladies and gentlemen!
The sun will soon descend,
On the other side of the hills,
And the evening will prevail.
Thank you all, for coming,
Before the fall of evening.
I request your complete silence,
Since this symphony requires tranquillity,
Before it begins.
Because your silence is a vital part of this symphony.
Ladies and gentlemen!
A meaningful but attentive silence”
All of them sat alert in their seats,
In a manner as if they weren’t humans,
But statues of clay, stone, or metal.
In this static moment,
The conductor stood up
Walked towards the stage with soundless steps.
Stopped for a moment at the center of the stage,
After a fraction of a second
Contracted his height, and bowed to the audience
In a decent manner,
Then rose up
And partially faced the orchestra.
With a conductor’s baton gracefully held,
Between two elegant fingers.
Opened his arms,
In such a state of absorbance
As birds unfurl their wings
To assimilate the breeze of peace and the silence of serenity,
Pulsating in the ambiance.
All the musicians are sitting,
Attentively in their places,
Waiting for a slight gesture.
But the conductor stood still having his baton
Between two elegant fingers.
The first sound that
Miraculously emerged in the silence,
Was the throb of the hearts.
As if the heartbeats of the guests of different ages,
Became a pattern of natural rhythm.
The wind opened her eyes
And came down from the branches of trees silently,
A step above the ground,
She tinkled her anklets;
Appraised herself from all angles.
Then she placed her steps on the ground
As if a musician infuses a touch
Of his fingers into the strings of Tanpura,
Then she managed her movement
Within greens around her,
To set up the master note, “SAA”.
At the next moment the set note,
Started infusing not only into the veins of hearts and souls of guests
But the whole ambiance.
When cooing of the wild pigeons
And “Peehoo” of Papias merged
In the rhythm of throbbing hearts;
Then from the thick branches
Of the green trees,
The pleasant chirping of sparrows,
Along with the cooing of the cuckoo
Knocked at the heart of the wounded dove.
The magical spell of the sweet song
Of the nightingale
Touched to the heart of Myna.
The whole jungle knows
What kind of fragrance emits,
From the sound of a Myna.
She came out,
Of her nest with opened wings
A squirrel jumped on the peeled off skin,
Of a dead tree and scampered
As delicate fingers of an artist,
Move to and fro on the keyboard.
At the same moment those keyboard players
Who was waiting for conductors flick,
The placed glow of their pores,
On the keyboard knobs.
The wind lifted her heels,
Looked at the sun;
Twirled her back,
Woodpecker and the partridge,
Showed her the fundamental note,
When she returned,
After descending on the predetermined note,
The rhythmic cycle rose like whirlwind.
And then the essence of the symphony,
Along with the whirlwind,
Spread into the undulation of the valley of the blood.
In such a magical manner
As hordes of deer appeared
Bouncing strides from all sides
Of the plane amid the trees.
Deep blue, milky white
And green colored peacocks,
Bearing rustle of peace within their wings,
Binding whirlpool of cosmos
With their feet,
Drenched in such a dance
As if they have heaved the climate,
Of peace into their respective rhythmic cycles.
Along with the wind the chorus of leaves,
Flowers and sparrows performing wonders,
As it went on growing faster and faster.
The sun too, while burning in its own conflagration
Was getting cooler and cooler.
The evening became thick and dark,
From each vein of the broken bangle
Of the moon,
The music of blue blood falling,
Down in the atmosphere
The heartbeats of the guests were the part of the symphony
Which is arranged by the jungle and the dwellers of the jungle
And now
The deep humming of the orchestra
Surging as if the ocean is awaking.
It was the moment of real creation,
In which the dancing wind
Stretched her limbs with an enchanted spell,
Adorned the blue crystal of the moon,
On her forehead,
And started moving on her toes,
Along with the whirls of beats,
Then fell straight on the predetermined note.
After showing a glimpse of full body-length
Stood upright, then she tinkled her anklets
By choosing a peculiar rhythm
From the ambiance to touch the peak of the performance,
At the same moment those who were sitting
Spellbound on their seats
A rainbow of numerous
Colors began to grow in their
Green, blue, brown, and black eyes.
Exactly at that moment,
The conductor who stood still,
Looked at the audience,
The beholders saw as if his sinews were
Charged with the electric current.
The symphony oozed out from each pore,
Of his body like a magic
And moistened the whole environment.
At least twenty-five Cellos, Violas
And flowing over violin strings,
Were the dancing phalanges.
And the entire range of different instruments,
From all over the world,
Along with the population of the jungle,
Were playing and singing
The tale of wounded Dove.
The magic of this symphony,
Awoke the old sea sleeping on the ruined civilizations,
From its deep slumber.
The old sea awoke,
Rubbed its eyes, enfolded its fingers,
Gradually came into the surge,
Grooves in the channels of blood,
Of the performers, soaked with the melody
Going through the knobs of the keyboards
Stood straight on the apex of the valley of blood
With its all depth and boundlessness.
Symphony on one side
Was dressing the wounds of the wings of the dove
With the soft musical notes
And on the other side, she was absorbing
The wondering sounds of nature
Initiated by the jungle that was knocking
At the celestial Throne across the skies;
Meanwhile, the dove complimented the song:
Let’s sit together
And melt the rhythm of peace,
In the colors of melody.
And reveal secrets of the hearts,
Drag heavens onto the earth.
Let’s repair the broken bangle of the moon,
And fetch out a new sun
From the deep sea of the night.
Let’s sit together.
The desire of the dove
Melted into a few droplets of tears
And mixed into the sea,
A strange commotion occurred in the abyss of the sea,
Waves rose within themselves like Tsunami,
Transforming into a dance of peace and tranquillity.
The morn of universal peace, emerging from the dark
When the symphony was embracing its zenith:
The heels of wind, twirling, and twisting
Hence, they began to bleed.
She released her anchal from her hands,
In such a manner as to waft over the valley,
Like a rainbow in between the rainy clouds.
And the sea, at this complementing phase of climax,
Passing through the watery channels,
Began to rain on stone-like silences
Of the blood-stained valley.
Waves turned into drops,
Then into grains, transformed then into the fog,
That merged with the rainbow.
Overspread from the East to the West,
Engraved into the cities, the towns,
Villages, bazaars, schools, factories, blocks,
Streets, houses, walls, and windows,
And into the hearts of the kids, young and old.
O! My Lord!
It is my dream since cohered
In the corner of my tearful eyes;
A loop within a loop,
The disseminated breath of it
Which lay dispersed,
Put them into a string.
My Lord!
Turn my dream into a living breathing reality.
Ayub Khawar
