The Grave Digger And His Son Poem by Akhtar Jawad

Your dress is lovely and nice,
must be very high its price,
in place of buttons it has five stars,
but I am not jealous of it,
instead I am thankful to my fate
that my body has a common dress on it.
I know we both will be buried one day,
you with a costly silken shroud,
and me in a cheap cotton one.
The grave digger will visit our graves with a pointed stick
having a hook at one end,
he will insert it in our graves
and both the shrouds will be dragged out.
Once again we shall be naked in the arms of our mother.
When you'll start protesting I shall keep silence,
and just smile,
as I know how protesters are dealt.
One day the shroud snatcher will also be dead,
and his duties will be taken over by his son.
When in the dreams the son will ask his father,
"How are you dear father? "
The old digger will reply,
"I am all right, fine, thank you,
but a few naked men use abusive language
for a well-dressed man like me."
"Why? "Asked the son.
"I dragged shrouds from their bodies."
"Calm, calm my father,
since tomorrow onwards nobody will be abusive to you."
The son snatched many shrouds like his father,
but after dragging a shroud
he inserted the stick in the middle of the grave
that penetrated somewhere
in the dead bodies of the protesters.
You can guess where it did insertion.
The man who was buried in a silken shroud
cried and said that old man was better than the youth.