As
wise men debate,
Deep fried sorrow gets served each morning on our breakfast plate.
And each night
Missiles like fireflies light up the Ramadan sky
While death has a shameless quickie right in front of your eye.
Blood, still fresh and warm, polka dot the white shroud
Of 1371 cold sons whose mothers stand in a crowd
Singing requiem in a high octave
With no flowers laid on their grave.
With payers on their lips, but with their fingers on the trigger
the orchards wait for times to get better.
Deep fried sorrow gets served each morning on our breakfast plate.
And each night
Missiles like fireflies light up the Ramadan sky
While death has a shameless quickie right in front of your eye.
Blood, still fresh and warm, polka dot the white shroud
Of 1371 cold sons whose mothers stand in a crowd
Singing requiem in a high octave
With no flowers laid on their grave.
With payers on their lips, but with their fingers on the trigger
the orchards wait for times to get better.
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