With every passing day and with each fleeting moment,
I see how my world is falling, falling down on me.
With every wailing cry and with each unheard lament,
I see how my world is falling, an abyss is all I see.
A garden of earthly delights that I once called my own,
the songs of muted angels, in an eternal reprise,
the shrine of euphoria supreme and its sovereign throne,
O! Departed days of wonder will you not return please?
For I remember my valley from a time of peace and love,
the olives grew purple dark and the meadows evergreen,
with flowers of war wilting beneath the abode of doves,
was this world an honest truth or nay!, a wishful dream?
Where once our monuments stood, on grounds hallowed great,
and lofty rose the aspiration of our nation just,
today they crumble down all owed to a deserving fate,
rest our mortal dreams betrothed to unfound dust.
The slowly dying embers have turned to ashes here,
and pains me how no different, they are from darkly doom,
for the rushing moment of today shall not hardly care,
shall not recall glory past but presently dying bloom.
My world is falling bit by bit, piece by piece, day by day,
and the memories of burning rain scorch this grieving mind,
the walkway to an endless dawn, a dawn though weary grey,
lights the corners of my dreams, for tomorrow must be blind.
With every passing day and with each fleeting moment,
Of all the queues of hopeful yearning,
the one I most dread standing in,
undulates serpeantile on meadows turning
lifeless grey with the silence grim.
Redounds every now and then a shout,
“stand in line you, stand in line,
bare not a countenance that holds a doubt,
what is yours is mine, yours is mine”,
and in these aisles of ashen dreams
where darkness holds its last sanctuary,
drip effulgent the glorious beams
and light the bloody pools of treachery.
The youth of now drowns as we speak,
holding hands of the lifeless old,
as the closing doors can only creak
while a tragic fate must now unfold.
The voice of spring, youth of a nation
made to wait while verdure abates,
most of them prey to dispassion
as patient fools face misanthropic gates.
How many curtains must be drawn on you?
my hopeful friend, my faithful friend,
how many dreams must you bid adieu?
for this is today, and is this the end?
But who am I, to condescend with pity,
when myself I am but waiting all the while
shuffling feet on the dirt, and prithee
an ocean of hopefuls moving single file.
With every moment my fading visage,
with every bruise my servile bow,
makes me as the youth of this age,
a thoughtless face, a hopeless brow.
I worry not for the days I stand
regardless how indignant it may be,
but if my love were to hold my hand
I dare say, she may not discern me.
When I bleed, they only wish to see a drop of red,
not to hear my screams, not to bury the thousands dead.
When I suffer, they only wish to take my home it seems,
but they take away my hope, my spirits, my dreams.
When they kill my innocent children, our sons and daughters,
and their unknowing blood turns red the flowing waters,
they expect us only to whince, mourn and then turn away
but feel the scales of justice, unto us they finally sway.
The day of reckoning is far away, but coming nonetheless,
the bell that tolls we may not hear, but it tolls somewhere incess’
Tie these hands, you must fear them surely,
burn this skin, you must hate it sorely,
Am I not human, just as you, persecuted though, but just the same?
demons in hell have suffered less, and faced not the dreaded shame,
every day a hopeful reprise, the hope to leave this awful place,
where the dead must mourn the living left, where soil and flesh embrace.
I am the child of Sarajevo, have you seen my rose?
carved in concrete memoirs, does it not impose?
a question as to how so many died, but no one heard a sound,
for the dead know only how to sleep, in graveyards unbound.
I am a mother Palestinian, have you seen my baby?
I lost it today, or yesterday, is it alive still? maybe….
gaza is a wall of martyrs, perhaps he is another brick,
and how each day they raise it further, it only makes me sick.
I am the corpse of Sudan, where is my sweet Babylon?
has it drowned in the tears of centuries, or vanished in the wait of dawn?
where is my fellow man, where is the angel of death?
enough of this living and dying, enough of these wasted breaths!
Among the lights, so blinding bright,
under the moon and the embracing night,
on the shores awake and the sea asleep
apathy frolics while antipathy creeps,
let them know, the blissful children,
how their swings shall move lifelessly,
let them see, how we sold them,
let them hear our false melody.
all our dreams left unfulfilled,
all our hopes, how strong we willed,
left in shadows far behind,
instead of promises old and blind,
let them ask, the curious children,
what we did when the war was here?
let them hear, how we told them
let them find the truth laid bare,
for when the war came to our land,
we stood by and watched hand in hand,
we closed our eyes in hope of bliss,
instead lost an eon, now gone amiss,
let them feel, the bleeding children,
how the fire burns relentlessly,
let them scream, let us leave them,
vanish they shall with our legacy,
the smoke will clear then and there,
and the sun shall rise without a care,
the sound of laughter, shall hear no more,
we the people left on the shore,
let us bury our unfeeling children,
far from pain and this misery,
let us weep, at the graves we dig them,
let us tend, to wounded liberty,
for though we have none to call our own,
days and nights now spent alone
and though our seeds, so arduous sown,
the fruits they bare, now aimless grown,
let them dream, the lonely children,
dreams broken by the lives we led,
let them rest, our peaceful children,
let them sleep on our destined bed.