The price of colour-

The price of colour-

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I read in the papers
Today,
A young boy and his father,
Under the blanket
Of night,
Hitched a boat, set sail
Across the ocean;
Behind them- the ground
Waiting, waiting to be
Stepped on and triggered into
Explosion-
(A boy and his father escaped).

Across the ocean,
to a land- the land of the free,
Where freedom comes
With no price, and life
Is valued.

A young boy and his father
Arrived- thrilled- alive.
Two years down the line-
August 11,
The newspaper reads;
A young boy shot down
On the street,
The young boy who escaped
To be free,
The young boy thrilled
To live,
Gunned down, for the colour
Of his skin.

Facebook page: words of a random. let’s connect!

Day 3: I stand with them-

Day 3: I stand with them-

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Let your voice be heard above the cries of
those living in the midst of violence.
The sight of blood- a daily occurrence,
In grief and sadness their lives are engulfed.

A moment of thought for our fellow men,
Our Sisters, mothers who are war besieged,
Unaware of when they’ll get their next meal,
Their world is in chaos- I stand with them.

Let your voice be heard- for the ones whose land,
Once filled with greeneries of different kinds
Now turned, a graveyard- a horrendous sight
Of bodies in layers, a burial ground.

So, I stand with the ones whose blood is shed,
Mercilessly and their cries go unheard.


Day 4: A sonnet. Oh my, I didn’t know writing a sonnet could be so hard, what with the rhyming and the long syllables, but then again, I am glad I did it. This post is in response to DecemberPoetryChallenge.

the above image is courtesy of Third force news.org.uk

For Them-

For Them-

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For the kids with stone as their weapon,
The sky as their roof;
Bloodshed a daily occurrence,
Freedom to live besieged;
For the kids whose tears fall unnoticed,
Voices hoarse from cries;
Struck from every angle,
Their innocence dimming.

For the mother who buries lifeless bodies,
Of children she’s outliving;
One whose milk has dried from hunger,
While her newborn is weeping;
For the ones who dread the sun at daybreak,
For the onslaught it brings forth;
I say, is it worth it fighting-
The ones with stone as their weapon.

photo credit: taken by Peter Biro/ IRC

From the eyes of a child 2

From the eyes of a child 2

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When I awoke, the sun had begun to set and Ahmed wasn’t back yet. An uneasy feeling in the way only a seven year old could explain come to my mind, and I had racing thoughts of Ma and Baba. The events of the afternoon felt unreal and the thought of home clouded my judgement. In that moment, I forgot everything Ahmed told me and instead raced as fast as my legs could carry me towards the direction of home without glancing down.

As I got towards the main town gate, I stumbled; fell down and rolled over on things that felt like a mixture of cushion and wood. It was uncomfortable, not to add the skunky smell that filled the atmosphere. I managed to find my footing, stood up and took a look at the mattressy-wooden thing that I had rolled over on. Staring at the sight in front of me, I shrieked and screamed. My legs were numb, my hands shivering, tears flooding- I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Lying beneath my feet, in front of me where hundreds of bodies, draped in white with patches of red all over. This couldn’t happen in reality, no, I was only dreaming. For the first time since I had left school, I looked up and around me. To my right and left, men and boys with blood stained clothes were dragging bodies and dumping them at the edge of the already huge pile. Women were gathered together a little away from me, in clusters, weeping, sobbing loudly. Some were on the floor and rolling in tears, others were sitting with hands constantly flared up. Some of the women were seated, with babies clutched to their breasts, a blank expression on their faces- a lot of the women, I recognized. It seemed nobody noticed the little girl in brown skirts and a white shirt, ruffled thick black hair, standing behind a pile of dead bodies, shivering in fear with tear stained face. Too many lives had been lost that day for the living to be noticed. Humanity was lost in Baga, and that wasn’t the only thing lost sadly.

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When does it end?

When does it end?

When does it end?
Till we get numbed to violence;
Thickened to bomb blasts;
Cold to tears shed.

When does it end?
Till our hearts get empty;
Our nerves get numb to-
The violent messages.

When does it end?
Till the throats of the masses,
Gets sore from screaming-
For help from the government.

When does It end?
When our hopes are buried,
With bones under soil;
And this generation withers.

When does it end?
Till all our kids can think of,
When asked ’bout ancestors-
Is violence and bloodshed.

When does it end???
I can’t help but ask this-
In lines and verses
The only way I know how,
So Please tell me, when does it end!