#afganistan
The terror has shuttered , wrecked the whole nation,
polluted the air with their horrified barbarian power,
The smiles of innocent souls have suddenly evaporated with the wistful air of terror.
The lives of Afganistan is mingled with the guns and bombs.
Terrorists have no religion,
They wear a vague mask of ideology
That no longer exists.
They live on the barbarism, breath on the evilness.
Freedom is being taken away asif it never existed.
The homeland is scattered in pieces and in decay ,
The whole nation is covered with the dense sheet of terror.
They are living in a nation that no longer has a face.
In the nation birds aren't allowed to sing,
Girls aren't allowed to read,
There is no street without gunmen marching,
There is no light of freedom
That reaches underneath the hijab.
The unclouded souls are buried under debris of chaos and menace.
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 10:27 AM UTC
Dear Alex,
I listened to President Obama read the letter you wrote today,
To an unfortunate little boy from Aleppo, and how you’d like to be his protege.
In preparation for his visit, you would gather all you’re most precious possessions,
Offering to him love, friendship and a gift called freedom of expression.
You would teach him and he would share his world with you,
A bonding camaraderie colored in Red, White and Blue.
You my friend, have a heart of gold like a treasure untold,
Because showing love to others…..is a longing in your soul.
Thanks you Alex!
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
What now, the loss of limbs in a distant conflagration?
The seeping brains amongst poppy fields?
The myriad nature of violent death, outside of journalistic imagination
A grind of experience on which the lost youth builds.
What now? Within the shredding blasts euphoria
The élan of a soldier, in memoria
Downing drinks in the Stag and Hare
After a tour, ordinary actions reek of tedium
There is, in the conviviality, no rush of adrenalin there
Fermenting trouble establishes a happy medium.
Quarrelling with a man who wears a business suit
Is displaced adventure, smashing his face in is a hoot.
What now? A mate, a favoured friend, dies in the dirt
When whistling a tune, recalling the holiday in Spain, the family,
A shot coursing through his unbuttoned shirt
Deflating his lung, another shattering his knee
When he died, his platoon died too,
Metaphorically; the snipers aim was true.
Bottled up in Basra, aimlessly wandering in Helmand
A shrill event on News at Ten between politics and football,
Another death, another iconic face, the catasphropic end
Of a youthful life. What now? The swift end to a morning stroll
Amongst watching villagers in dry breathless mountains
Empty streams and florescent fountains.
In the terracotta dirt my soul leaked away
My final return was like a funeral celebration,
I said nothing anymore. I had nothing left to say.
I’d given my youth to a sniping cynical nation.
What now? It was over for me in a grasping world-
A gooey puddle spread beneath me as my soul evacuated.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
He was only 16,
He wanted to join,
he was too young to die,
he was old enough to fight,
the loss for his family,
for the good of his country,
he had so much to live for,
he had so much to die for,
that poor boy,
that good boy.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC