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A poem that expresses the pain and horror of  the havoc heaped by man on his fellow beings.

A message to those who shall not be named …..
So what do you call this farce we see
The havoc reaped upon God’s masses
The thirst despite the might of the Rivers
The hunger despite the precious molasses
The people whose spirits should be dim
By all human standards a life so grim
But despite that they shine
And adorn the shrine of a future free and divine
A future only they can see but will come to pass , for they are worthy
And those who spill the blood pristine
Their sight is unseeing
For they are blinded … by the glean of a few dirty pence here and there; and blinded they are by the Creator’s own scheme
For it isn’t you or me you see
But rather, the lack of sanctity for life or for humanity
That appears to seal the fate of their insanity
How far can the human spirit be tested
How long can the will of the people be suppressed or arrested
How thin can Fatima’s kids become before their weakened bodies give in?
How much can Ahmed’s spirits last when faced with blast after blast?
And his friends lose limb after limb if lucky enough not to be claimed by the Reaper Grim
How long before his spirit dies while those above navigate through lie after lie
The fact remains, the lines of history practise no restraint
The fact remains, the murderers sit on their fancy terrain
Despite their nightly sleep terrors borne of all the pain they caused to others
But cowardice is a despicable tarnish
And cowardice cannot be hidden or varnished
For it is a pestilence, a disease, a plague
A nefarious character  only the weak cannot forsake
To Sit on a throne built from the  people’s bones
To guard your treasure trove like Smaug in the Hobbit: small minded, malicious and  alone
To continue to mislead these people, pretending to be the saviour, when all the time you are the slayer
To guard you” own” while treading on a million dreams cut short and forlorn
Every grain that you eat irrigated by a martyr’s vein
Every drop of water straight from the eyes of the weeping mothers of the slain
Every breath you take tainted by the screams of the tortured  and the raped

So eat, drink and make merry,
For with this delusion many fools are buried
You know what our Lord said in His book: the Reaper will come even in the mightiest of fortresses
So huddle up and try to hide
You have no dignity or pride
You cannot stop the tide
The tightness of your grave
Will no doubt bear witness to the darkness of your reign


Green Typewriter

Dr Sahar Musaad is a New Zealander by nationality, British by marriage and upbringing but with Sudanese parents. She calls herself a kind of global citizen. She currently works for the National health service ( NHS) in U.K. as a consultant clinical microbiologist ( an MD and pathologist at same time). Sahar has started writing again over the last year and has a series on Sudan and a series of more emotional poetry

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