Of the ghosts and the unsung spirits,
O thee ladies, are always scared.
Of the tiny bugs and cockroaches,
O thee ladies, only thee are scared.
Of the things falling and sudden sounds,
O thee ladies, only thee are scared.
Of the cuddly cats and adorable dogs,
O thee ladies, only thee are scared.
Tell me ladies, is there anything in
This world of which you're not scared?

A few minutes 'fore I saw you on screen.
I couldn't anticipate your deadly entry scene.
You made my eyes pop, ears ringing
You don't possess a face that's charming.
Hence people; many abhor you, I adore you.
A look at your enigmaticly bewitching eyes
In the middle of night in my phone, keeps me
Awake for rest of it, you're my visual alarm.
Yet I still fall for you, everyday I see you.
'The way you make me feel' is beyond havoc.
I was lured to you,  you're my first sight love Valak.

When I saw you in your lovely picture.
My heart burnt as you Imprinted on it,
Like a tiny pint of tincture.

Born to the indigent parents, unfortunately
The destitute children, only to live a life
Excruciating; the life in poverty forever.
No means to study, less sources of money.
Hands stretched all day waiting for alms.
Opulence; is even one old rusty penny.
To them the very streets we spit are homes.
Food we throw away is their square meal,
Ingesting which, victims they become of little known syndromes.
Die in a way, more pathetic than they lived.

They used wake up when the sun rose.
High and bright in the sky, the souls of Syria.
Kids gone to school, half asleep babies doze
Off, everyone happy, everyone loved.
Everyday of life, earlier, like a feast, celebrated.
Harmless, innocent and unoffending souls.
They are woken up now by bombs showering
From the sky, straight upon their houses.
Bombs filled in with toxic, fatal gases.
Killing those harmless children and babies
Of months old; who are yet to talk, yet to walk.
Desolating parents who dreamt a new world
With their babies, souls who know not a sin.
Bringing a war to people in name of rehab.

Aforetime at which hour we were born
In this hustling world of disharmony.
Rich for what those gents has't nev'r adorn,
Poor for what those gents has't nev'r adorn.
Conflicting for the limited, forgetting the still.
Knoweth not that the still is peace.
One day ere we receiveth inner peace.
T'will beest late for t, but not yet.