‎in my next summer
‎i shall write poetry about flowers
‎not about men this country sent to earth
‎or requiems. or dirges

‎just poems about lovebirds
‎to bury those mournful rhythms
‎of a country where
‎grief flows in unbended currents

a country that tills terror
‎tills wars
‎and sows corpses in her fertile womb

‎her leaders feast in silence
‎feast and feast
‎never weep to help the weepers weep
‎and they say:
‎it’s our time to rule; theirs is to die
‎weep & weep

‎and despite the desecration and destruction
‎marauding-like herdsmen, to afflict.
‎

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by ammar nassir on Unsplash