A Little Kid from the Crematorium
A poem
✍By Pancha Vismrit
In my nightmares
Always in my nightmares
A little kid from the crematorium
Approaches me
And sighs like a man with a profound grief
And speaks his soul:
I was stuck
Under the rubble
Of the collapsed century
A long, ugly note
Of the color of skin and the shape of the nose
In its hands
A long, boring description
Of the faith that could only polarize
The human society,
Laid in its bosom
The century, blindfolded
By the robotic terrorism
Love, hatred
Lust and ego
As an epidemic in its people
Running after an unknown
Destination like a forest fire
Poked by several
World-ending predictions
Chewed by plague, SARS, and Ebola
Swept away
By the holocaust of the tsunami,
Cyclone and typhoon
The century, warned
By the several catastrophic earthquakes,
Fatality
And natural disasters
In my nightmares
Always in my nightmares
A little kid from the crematorium
Approaches me
And sighs like a man with a profound grief
And speaks his soul
Pointing to the Mediterranean Sea
Where the boat
To his freedom had just drowned:
He was stuck
Under the rubble
Of the collapsed century
Before the day
His world ended
And asks
The million-dollar question,
As if he has just got to this world,
"Why did God create the same world again?
"Why did God create the same world again?"
000
29 March, 2017, KSA
(This poem is dedicated to a three-year-old Syrian kid called Aylan, who was found dead on the seashore, near the Turkish resort of Bodrum, on September 02, 2015. The image of the kid had gone viral and shocked the entire world. Many artists responded by drawing Aylan and representing him as 'a wake-up call' for the European leaders. Also, some poets came up and wrote poems about it. I did too, but quite late, but the sad fact is that the Mediterranean crossing is still taking place. This is a humanitarian crisis.)
✍By Pancha Vismrit
 |
| Source of this picture: boredpanda |
In my nightmares
Always in my nightmares
A little kid from the crematorium
Approaches me
And sighs like a man with a profound grief
And speaks his soul:
I was stuck
Under the rubble
Of the collapsed century
A long, ugly note
Of the color of skin and the shape of the nose
In its hands
A long, boring description
Of the faith that could only polarize
The human society,
Laid in its bosom
The century, blindfolded
By the robotic terrorism
Love, hatred
Lust and ego
As an epidemic in its people
Running after an unknown
Destination like a forest fire
Poked by several
World-ending predictions
Chewed by plague, SARS, and Ebola
Swept away
By the holocaust of the tsunami,
Cyclone and typhoon
The century, warned
By the several catastrophic earthquakes,
Fatality
And natural disasters
In my nightmares
Always in my nightmares
A little kid from the crematorium
Approaches me
And sighs like a man with a profound grief
And speaks his soul
Pointing to the Mediterranean Sea
Where the boat
To his freedom had just drowned:
He was stuck
Under the rubble
Of the collapsed century
Before the day
His world ended
And asks
The million-dollar question,
As if he has just got to this world,
"Why did God create the same world again?
"Why did God create the same world again?"
000
29 March, 2017, KSA
(This poem is dedicated to a three-year-old Syrian kid called Aylan, who was found dead on the seashore, near the Turkish resort of Bodrum, on September 02, 2015. The image of the kid had gone viral and shocked the entire world. Many artists responded by drawing Aylan and representing him as 'a wake-up call' for the European leaders. Also, some poets came up and wrote poems about it. I did too, but quite late, but the sad fact is that the Mediterranean crossing is still taking place. This is a humanitarian crisis.)
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