An untitled poem

Shyam Kamadolli
Mar 10, 2018 · 1 min read

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.


So little time. so much to see

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