Terror Stricken Land Poem by Mohammad Younus

In the valley of weeping Chinārs,
I see the little children -our future generation -
born in the terror stricken land,
Brooding on thorns in the garden of withered roses,
Screaming and screeching with pain,
Under the nightmare of persecution,
I see the widowed women,
Leaning over the dead bodies of their husbands,
Assuming they are alive, and trying to dance,
In their fantasy, that they have defeated the death
I see the little orphans in tattered clothing,
With paled eyes, and dark purplish colour on their cheeks,
With tears flooding in their eyes refusing to roll down,
I see broken mothers and hunched fathers,
Shouldering their young boys' coffins,
Eh, I can't either mourn or moan,
As on the gateway of my mouth are standing,
Gunners to send me into eternal silence,
I can just say the prayers on the dead,
I send them my love and sing on their graves:
The song of their lost dreams

Mykoul