By Sajidah Iqbal
His soul shrouded in a dismal, dreary darkness,
Bereft of as much as, a tiny tinsel of brightness.
He is destitute of words and deficient in life,
Devoid of any luck and depleted in pride.
Blitz, bombs, burns, rifles, tanks, devastation,
His life upside down, like some frenzied fiction.
He was Aleppo’s born, where life brimmed with life
Before his brood was massacred, in front of his eyes
His nest burnt to ashes, he witnessed his folks die,
He had to leave his homeland. He had to say good-bye.
Once a living man, boasting home and hearth,
Today a path-finder, … a burden on earth.
He suffered through war and had had no brake,
His hopes have been vanquished, inciting immense ache.
He persuades his inner-mate, it is London no more war
But smears and scars of yesterday haven’t faded so far.
Those visceral voices and thundering squalls
Still strike, crack and shatter his glass eyeballs.
Splinters of his dreams, dent his drowsy mind
And his torpid, tired self is gloriously declined.
Shard, Plazas and towers, everything cast in pale,
His jaundiced view of life, shall ever stop to prevail?
Heralds of bright future and cheerful songs of spring,
Are often illusory promises, with silvery fleeting wings.
“If London is vicious, venal and vile in darkness deep,
Light a beacon of hope, to get you through disbelief
You came from the death’s door, pale and knackered
But the dream of budding life won’t keep you shattered.
Wells Street Journal 