They plunder us to our shirts; shackled in flatirons,


Pinned helpless to the floor,


Satiators of their lustful orgies,


Sonorous cries in vain,


Outroared by missiles from clouldless skies,


Maternal wails of anguish,


Of a mother in painfull loss,


Of a just son,


Unjustly slained,


Burned to crisp on a holy plain,


Where many are buried over again,


Dry tears of yearn,


Seeking repose from disdain,


”Mercy, mercy” our tearful plea,


To no avail it seems,


Impregnable to these hearts,


Fibred by stone and steel,


In our vitiated bodies; we wail,


Our feast of joy is but a dish of pain,


Our homes; A pile of grave,


Unto our lord; we cry


Hear our cry; brethren is faith.



Amori Lateefah (Dream) @


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