There is a storm That is turning hearts into story tellers And Wise elders chanting an ode to sadness Hoping its fists could claw a way out Of their sullen eyes and stretch just far enough To polish the clouded thoughts of quiescent beings
A storm of gray splatters on otherwise perfectly blue skies Filled with reflections of first school days, and Makeshift street stadiums A storm of children turned into ghosts Haunting the mausoleums that these streets have become As the gray splatters slowly turned into ****** ones And the trust of men was put into guns Instead of other humans As though cold lifeless metal Could compete with a beating heart As though men who happen to be white Are most appropriate to decide who wins the battle No body wins the battle, No body wins in war There are only rubbles, and catacombs For the comfortable ones, who convinced themselves That they were bestowing favors on the dying
Fleeing death is apparently not a good enough reason To be deserving of a land that was never even ours And mourning little boys found on shores is only good until the hashtag is out of season
so you tell me, does sadness reside in the pity of a heart seeking reassurance of its goodness or does it surrender when it meets the resilience of children who made their roofs out of starry nights