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The
streets are lined with blood,
The dust is coloured red,
The
Orphan lies abandoned,
Without food, water, or bed,
The
once enchanting city,
Is now the capitol of fear,
The
world has shut it's heart,
Pretending not to hear,
The
once green hills and valleys,
Are now pits of graves,
The
once safe home to run to,
Is now a killer blade,
The
once heard noise of laughter,
Is now the wail of grief,
The
lives of many children,
Are wretched and very brief,
With
every drop of laugher,
The birds they used to sing,
Now
with every drop of blood,
The trees and mountains ring,
The
morning call to prayer,
Is shattered by the sounds,
Of
early morning fighting,
Upon civilian grounds
The
martyrs are gone,
Now the Muslims fight each other,
Where
is the Muslim Ummah,
To care for one another.
You can
call yourself a scholar,
You can say you are a king,
But
when your fellow humans die,
You hide and do nothing,
You
can sit and say it's sad,
But it will never be good,
The
troubled lives of those people,
Will never be understood,
And all the time the world,
Thinks it fun to sit and
see,
All the poor, and dying Afghans,
Crying in their
plea,
And it seems that as their blood,
Drips
uncontrolled,
The story of he truth,
Will never be told,
Now the whole world is its enemy,
No one wants to
strive,
While the world is merrymaking,
Afghanistan is
burned alive.
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