Wasteland



The grief of the unheard voices.

No right to vote, to walk, to boat.

Afar from the land of mystical comforts and high-speed internet.

Are souls trapped on a soil ablaze.


The wars irrupt and men lay waste.

The wars submerge, leave us all with a sour taste.

A son, a daughter, a doctor, a professor, a nun, an infant

All pawns to be shot at, to be spat at.

The soldier comes and makes him shine the tip of his boots.

Shoves him to run away and pierces his flesh with a deft shot.


He was a young man once, raised fatherless

Rowed boats for the mighty men to earn his buck,

And held their cameras for them as they smiled at his timid existence.

For when the flowers bloomed around the Dal.


The young man grew in a once dubbed heaven

But hell would be pleasant for all he'd seen and heard.

And as the wars ravaged his precious soil

He knew no more than to hold a gun and shoot at sight.


And tonight we lowered another coffin into the soil

And sang of the pleasant times and the present crimes

And tonight they cut the lights again, cut our ties to our friends again. And while the children bathed and the mothers prayed

Their men were heaped with batons again.


And if ‘all the world’s a stage’

Then we have failed in this plot of ours.

The pastures that once stood out like jewel from the muck,

Are now a wasteland turned to rust.

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