A mother dies:
A child cries,
But no one is nearby,
To lullaby.
Blood profuse from the lungs
Blood sprouts from ears
Blood gushed from the mouth
Blood gully wash the chest
Christ haste,
Call the mother to torsion the vest;
Keep as an evidence;
Blood was split in vain lust.
That said,
The child is wounded and mangled
On his head a plane landed
With its payload!
He soon will die you know
No time for furuncles to scratch grow;
Leaking its wound and moan,
It won’t last that long.
This is its swan song;
Keep strong,
Carry on the struggle,
Handle the barrel
Of the gun,
Let it not fall,
To bring the enemy
Down to its knee.
You live in a world
That is blind folded;
Doesn’t want to know your woes and trouble.
The world hopes and wishes,
For Tigryans to quietly vanish;
Wiped out;
Triturated and routed,
Reduced to ashes.
It could happily live without,
Clean as a dish;
Only to get rid their guilt,
For the crime committed!
If one genocide is tolerated to prevail,
The Mugwump world leaders
Will soon learn,
To their predicament,
The one they currently fight
Tooth and nail,
Would also undoubtedly fail.
Belay Ambelay