July 22, 2016

The Game

Filed under: Poetry,Society — by Zuhair @ 7:46 am


They took the youth
and sliced their heads off.
It was Zinki? What’re they made of?
Funds from around the world?

19 girls, they put in iron cages
as punishment for dignity. He throws
them into agony, while the masses witness the throes
of the fire and smoke that engulf them.

Are these just stories?
Can we believe what we hear?
They are so far away from here.
Truth is biased.

You leave a home that you have,
and come to a land like you are its heir,
But complain about the humid air.
It’s a home you do not need, but you steal it still.

Innocents are dying because of you;
children, women, men. They are our pearls.
But you keep sewing your ‘home’ with blood stained purls.
All for the sake of a political agenda in religious clothing.

And when ‘terrorism’ knocks on your door,
your uninformed women take your children in their arms,
and uninformed men take up their arms
in the form of media-polished loss and grief.

You take your moments of silence,
so the world forgets those who have been bred
in war, with not even a morsel of bread.
They weep for you, because they understand.

It is everywhere now, the disease of war;
Africa, Syria, America, Nice …
The world has been brought down to its knees.
We are all but pawns in a greater world.

How aware are we? How much do we really know?
We listen; we watch them die.
We watch as their blood becomes dye
to their earth and their soil.

The players watch each other move their Knights.
When threatened, protected, they run,
and hide, forgetting how they have wrung
the earth of the blood of the brave, that spills into the universe.

While a bomb goes off, homes come down
and a little boy prays,
for the absence of humanity, there is no praise.
But there is no condemnation either.

Not from the men in sharp suits,
seated in security, oblivious to the groan
of the countries that have not grown,
but have been murdered by their own.

We can protest, and we can shout
but the pain will not lessen.
We shall forever be haunted by the lesson,
that our leaders have failed us. They are not human.


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Amal Ahmed Albaz

Journalist; Poet; Speaker. Superman’s got his cape around his neck; I've got my hijab around my head.

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