Destined to be born but not to grow,
The little baby sleeping in his cot,
Expecting his new world a happy flow,
Knows not his God, custom nor his faith,
You gave life, like (in sunshine) snow,
Not snow, was like a crystal ice,
It broke; pieces scattered, and melted,
A sorry or some dollar will not do,
Lives you have taken, hundreds lives,
Have broken not utensil or cheap knives,
The soulless bees are pouring but no honey,
Sending death to baby in his cot,
The member men are learned and philosopher,
Can't find ways to let the baby prosper,
Stop shooting them from sky UNO,
Killed why? Most of them don't know.
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Comments about this poem (Bitter Honey by Jahan zaib )
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