An untitled poem

by Esmé, my thirteen year old middle-schooler

(A heartfelt composition I was compelled to share)

I do not weep for my city as it is
I weep in memory of how it was
The luscious fields, the bustling streets
But above all, laughter and freedom that permeated through the desert haze

Where lovely mosques once stood stand armed monsters,
Guarding piles of rubble of their own creation
The schools in which children once gaily frolicked
Are now hubs for brainwashing and child soldiers

The people have not given up on their home
But they stay only in body
The souls of the lucky ones roam far away
The souls of others are left behind in past lifetimes,

Lines of worry mar the faces of kids,
Forced to grow up too soon
And Many an old lady lie, in a paupers grave
Denied peace well deserved

And yet No single person, nor group, nor country
Can be accredited with the crime
Of destroying my home
I can only blame our race as a whole
For the simple hell we impart upon each other

© 2018, Esmé Kamadolli, All rights reserved.

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