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Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2012
The doctors all assured them that it was nothing,
They scribbled notes and called it pneumonia,

Sent the family here and there,
Take this and drink that,

Only it was not that at all,
No, it was much more than that,

Cancer, that was the fuse that had been lit,
Silent, merciless, ruthless, it bit through her,

It punctured her young life,
She battled with courage older than her six years,

Sana…

She will never now be kissed or betrayed by love’s arrow,
No more will she explore the bittersweet taste of life,

She shall not be tanned by the sun’s warm music,
Nor will her fingers roll a snowball in the fall of winter,

Hail, wind, rain and shine,
Water, air, fire and ice,

Hush! She sleeps now,
And dreams upon dreams which we who live have never dreamed,

Sana…

Your life was a song written in the hymn book of nursery rhymes,
You left us richer for having known you.
Sana, the brave little girl who had been fighting so bravely against illness these past few weeks, has passed away tonight. Her determination and her joy for life continues to inspire all those who knew her. Please spare a moment and offer up a prayer for this beautiful little girl.
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2012
She’s six,
She wants to play and run and with her friends freely mix,

She’s bright,
She wants to reach out to the dimly glowing tunnel of light,

She’s grateful,
She wants to be brave in the face of all that is fearfully fateful,

Imagine…

Pain, pain,

Pain that is so encrusted it eats into her tiny bones unseen,
Pain so heated it needs to be cooled with the kiss of morphine,

One lung sunken never again to flutter or rise,
The other coughs along over craggy cancer heights,

The luscious hair that was once her crown has been plucked away,
All her hair falling into the jealous grip of the dead and dying day,

There is a brain tumour that tick-tocks in the evening shadows,
In her sleep she whispers, “Tell aunty to bring me eyeshadows.”

A circle of spirals, a moonbeam,
She is one of us, what is life but a brief dream?
A brave little girl is tonight fighting for her life. My thoughts are with her family during this difficult and testing time. The following poem is dedicated to the courage and patience of the little warrior who, despite severe pain, still fights on against her illness.
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2012
“It’s a surprise…
Come here my sweet angel.”

She shyly steps over to him
And in his palms places her gentle hands,

“Come my doll,
Let me place this blindfold upon you.”

He ties a blindfold across her downcast eyes
and tapes her surprised lips.

“Now, sweet angel of the Lord,
Hold out your right hand to receive your gift.”

She does…

There is a sharp swish!
His knife slices through her first finger of trust.

“Want an education, eh?”
Her forefinger will never again index another book.

“Want a career, eh?”
Her signature finger is cut to the bone,

“Want to improve yourself, eh?”
He hacks off her trembling little finger.

“Want to discover yourself, eh?”
He peels off the identity from her thumb.

Her trust, her love, her dreams,
They lie there scrawled in the ink of her blood.

But in time there is a vow made,
She promises to learn to write again.

Her left hand will right the attack upon her rights,
She will resurrect and join the cracks in her dreams.
This is based on a real incident.
Rangzeb Hussain Jan 2012
She’s a go-getter,
A real achiever,
Ambition burns her,
Dreams filled with fever.

Lipstick, red and slick,
Ears, gold spins and spirals,
Hair, long and beautifully curled,
Skin, supple and smoothly pearled.

Neck, exposed and proud,
Shoulders, open and marbled,
Chest, creamed and perfumed,
Hips, mini-skirted and revealed.

Posterior, raised and inviting,
Interior, poised and excited,
Exterior, rosy and aroused,
Inferior,  ***** and discarded.

Money showers her at the town table,
Attention applauds her in the tabloid papers,
Men wine and dine her up and down the land,
Silken beds caress her shapely legs and soft hands.

Flaunted,
Used,
Abused,
Dreams sold.
Rangzeb Hussain Dec 2011
Courage?  

It does not lie at the end of a rifle
Nor does it explode with a grenade or a pistol,

It does not march with platoons
Nor does it rise with the wrath of nations,

It does not spit or rage
Nor does it whip in hate,

It does not attack the old
Nor does it cage the young or infirm,

It does not torture
Nor does it trap the breath of dissent,

  
Courage?  *

It sings upon the lips of children
Who fear no uniformed evil,

It beats at the heart of truth’s valley
Where a beleaguered generation waits for hope,

It is the flower bursting forth in the fertile earth of the homeless
Whose schools are bulldozed into dry desert dust,

It fights and floats from the fists of Freedom’s orphaned children,
In their wide open palms they free the heart of courage,

Courage cannot be caught nor in any barrack taught,
Courage is the food that fuels Liberty’s true fire.
Rangzeb Hussain Nov 2011
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.

- Somme Harvest -

In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.

On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.

Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.

Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.

In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.

Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god *****’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.

Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.

A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.

As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,

The phoenix has nested.
Rangzeb Hussain Nov 2011
This poem was inspired by a photograph taken by Kevin Carter. The photo can be viewed at the following link:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3533/3889588190e6c52b9358o.jpg


A Prayer for the Forgotten

I weep O Lord, I weep,
I weep for those who have no more tears to weep,
In this world overflowing with wealth
a child should not be left for the birds of carrion,

Look to it now before the hour grows cold,*

Remember well the flapping of the Reaper’s wings,
For on the tolling of the day,
One day now, one day soon,
You too will be snatched away before the break of day.
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