Broken Cries
Dedicated to those children whose lives have been lost or forever massacred because of war crimes.
Peaceful memories; pieces of integrated families.
A life defined by love through eyes of children in safe-like sanctuaries;
Echoes of sweet laughter; symbolic of symphonic melodies;
Kids’ demonic enemies are the witches in animated comedies.
Attending schools, bending rules;
Innocuous mischief of innocent souls;
Carefree hearts, utopian parts that make our lives undividedly whole.
Then the script is flipped; fractured, twisted n ripped;
Ugliness growing each minute like Dorian Gray’s pic.
It’s the stench of blood; incineration of flesh;
Extermination of humans cuz war is the Angel of Death;
Hannibal on the loose cuz carnage is a cannibal’s quest;
Screams of pain are joyful songs of glory n success.
Enter the twilit (not twilight) zone; zoom into “twice-laid†lives;
Feel broken cries, demise of tender dreams of diluted minds;
Fertile psyche of minors defiled with war-born parasites.
Dementia arises as parental ashes internalize.
Destruction of purity, infliction of fear and insecurity;
Distorted ideologies of 10 year olds with suicidal tendencies.
Sentenced casualties cause unsafe n harmful reality,
Young generations mutate to master the war mentality.
Little girls get raped and little boys are enslaved;
Tanks and bombs become their constant play-mates.
Cemeteries are homes, loved ones are in graves.
Beauty is in death cuz wars scar and mutilate.
“The lives of the children who survive will never be the same again.â€
Join the Conversation
Nicholas Kristof, columnist of the New York Times, part of the mainstream media. Part of the group we make fun of and criticize daily. Mr. Kristof, I could never say some of the things I have said about BIG MEDIA to your face. but I backbite against your inistitution so often. So when I your columns on Darfur, what should I say to you?
When the janjaweed militia attacked Fareeda, a village here in southeastern Chad near Darfur, an elderly man named Simih Yahya didn’t run because that would have meant leaving his frail wife behind. So the janjaweed grabbed Mr. Simih and, shouting insults against blacks, threw him to the ground and piled grass on his back.
Then they started a bonfire on top of him.
But his wife, Halima, normally fragile and submissive, furiously tried to tug the laughing militia members from her husband. She pleaded with them to spare his life. Finally, she threw herself on top of the fire, burning herself but eventually extinguishing it with her own body.
The janjaweed may have been shamed by her courage, for Mr. Simih recalls them then walking away and saying, “Oh, he will die anyway.†He told me the story as he was treated at a hospital where doctors peeled burned flesh from his back.
Atrocities like this make up the news and constitute the Sudanese-sponsored genocide here in the region surrounding Darfur, but it is also stories like this — of superhuman courage — that keep me going through my reporting here.
Oh no I did it again, I typed the first style command with a “bold”mark instead of italics as I wanted. Sorry.
No worries Edo, it’s been fixed.
Hiba – did anyone ever tell you that your poems need to be sung?
“Hiba – did anyone ever tell you that your poems need to be sung?”
Am working on that already!
Esraa,I, actually, write some of my poems to beats:)
Drima, thankx.