I drift down, <br />when i listen utterances, <br />reverberating in my mind, <br />these are not melodies, <br />but dances of hunger and sickness, <br />over the broken crusts of earth, <br />In downtowns on real grounds. <br />where sky burns and ashes, <br />soar in hurricane winds. <br />where breeze does not mean, <br />and fires of war rain with blood, <br />and clouds of dark smokes, <br />and cannon rumbles shake the hearts, <br />Where life is deeper than graves, <br />and death may give it up, <br />embracing the tragic, <br />Can man find himself? <br />with wavering wisdom, <br />gripping necks with shaking hands, <br />with suffered tolerance, <br />In house of fantasies. <br />with open eyes, <br />and buried dreams,<br /><br />Rafique Farooqi<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wars-8/
