What tale of sorrow should I tell of the time war?
What should I repeat like a caged parrot hanging in the veranda?
All my friends are gone, creating a life story
This life too is being wasted
With my own hands,
preparing the pyre of desires
Counting them on my fingers,
Words repeated like a silent chant
Foundations remain under the guise of happiness
The dignity of eternal culture and civilization
The remains of assurances
Potting the womb of the earth,
A huge pit is being formed
Like a gravel grinding machine,
Hunger, Daily and nightly, grinding ribs
Crawling in dark alleys,
Playing hide and seek like children
Like a burning rubber tire,
Poverty emits acrid smoke.
Hurry hovers around, restless.
In the barren settlement
Something has sprouted here and there
Whose palm lines are silent
Tunnel-like darkness lingers in their eyes
Who endure centuries of anguish
Endless wounds of weapons and scriptures on their bodies and minds
Bloods of money flowing down the drains of projects
Yet they Stand where they are
Standing with pride in construction
Save the scraps of rice cooked in the pot of poetry
Give justice to their bare arms, stretched with anger
Don't just sing songs of their tale of woe
Don't just sing songs
Make friends—make friends!
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 😊🙏 @vikbuddy
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