An excerpt from a composition in the making.

The Grave Rhymes

Oh God, I need to know why was I born.

Why was I sent to that world so torn?

            Torn was the house, so were the bodies under its debris;

            One was my mother, the other was my brother, Idris.

They took my father to a prison not known to me;

Shrapnel had hit the bulls-eye, so could hardly see.

            My school did open until sirens blared,

            Staying further proved fatal for who dared.

Pens and lil friends I lost many, so I lost count.

Surely You would know, so give me the account.

            Been hungry for days and sleepless without bed

            Was searching for crumbs when a thing hit my head.

When this resting place is so serene, so blissful, and so

God, why I was born? I need to know.

Lord, I know you would know why was I shot.

Unknown to them, ‘twas not crossfire that I caught.

            In retrospect, I compose posthumous rhymes

            Of untold prose that they should know ought.

Virals behind me, Reuter assigned a greater riot.

Armed lenses and flew in the cauldron on the trot.

            For my safety, the family were the worried lot;

            So, refuge of peacekeeping forces I sought.

In those barren lands, my lenses soon caught,

It was the rightest and the leftist who fought.

             Commies got the dollars, Wahabis sold pot.

            Viciously they fought, forsaking civil thought.

On Friday, it was a quirk of fate or who brought

Right on left and left on right; how ironic was the plot?

            To carry hereon, it wasn’t crossfire that I caught,

            Crossed were the reasons impossible to jot.

Crossed were the aged who had lived in fraught

Crossed were the kids whose future was a blot.

            Who is the Taliban; the talisman knows not,

            Faces, factions, and frictions distinguish them not.

All got sautéed in the hot frying pot of onslaught

No, it wasn’t the crossfire that Danish caught.

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