This broken line is my Nation's pathway
A nation of blind flock of sheep led by deaf Shepherds
Shepherds like vermin, who in their new skin, only worry about attacking what's left of the farm products
Though Spiral lines of hope breaking into bursts of gushing darkness.
Spume of hunger-infected sea as wave strike
Washing our wives and their daughters
To uncompleted buildings where
they unhurriedly dismiss their wears and
Auction their pride for bowls and coins
of hunting joy,
A temporary call-off of their hunger strike.
This broken line is my Nation's humor
A nation asylum like, where the caged man is sane, and the free one, mad
Yet non is mad enough to see
They say even when tribe and religion divide us, fate and love unite us
Broken lines. Broken bones of infant dreams
Dismembered from their mothers' love.
Broken lines. Your Broken voice
When you say
"Inna lillah wainna illaehi rajun"
For the hundreds who burn daily,
unrecognized,
in the detonated bombs of greedy leaders
This broken line is my nation's tree of pain
A nation trapped in captivity of bright darkness
Where an able bodied man in the morning becomes his brothers meat at dinner
Where mothers wipe and fathers sweat as their children are put into slavery
These broken lines are clustered ellipses,
parallel dashes separating us
from everywhere save.
This fire of torment is running into our homes
And there is curfew in all the places
we can hide.
This broken line is my nation's burlesque.
A tragic story of a deaf priest behind the pulpit
At an early discovery of her destiNY-Nation,
un-travelling back the pathway she had come.
It is my Nation's present
A present wrapped around a dreadful past with a looming light of her future doom.
