The Cry Of Death Poem by Istabraq Al Ahmadi

YOU wrote, long ago, of children crying
Today, I write of children dying
Like little linnets, a storm swallows their nest,
And the autumnal leaves among which to rest,
Like the parched stems of a bier,
And the broken and burned strings of a lyre.
You (in your grave peacefully) lie,
They, under ruins, everywhere die,
Not of overwork, not of misery, for no reason
DEATH reaps their souls in every season.
They died before the call could reach their ears,
Or of pain their eyes roll down tears.
To death their vibrant sinews were sent,
So no moment of joy with life they spent.
The children died before their prime,
Before hearing the dawn's nursery rhyme,
Before breathing their first breath,
Their eyes sighted the threshold of death.
Before their mothers' kisses touch their faces,
Before they feel their embraces,
Before they can learn their names to say,
Before it wakes, dies the day…
And marks of death rest on their cheeks,
Of a different revelation every mark speaks.
One mark speaks of 'God's command'
To slay your enemy' by your own hand, '
To baptize with blood your own child,
To make his life sweet and mild.
Another speaks that your enemy is a devil,
So why should he, equally in life revel?
And why should he have his equal share
of love while the mark of the beast he does bear?
Your brothers by Satan were beguiled.
To kill our children and their mothers too.
feeling Cain-like, they heartily smiled.
And with cold blood our children slew…
to build high your hellish empire,
to march among lakes of fire,
on the children's skulls and their little bones,
to ascend your already crumbling thrones.
YET, from their bones a palm tree,
Rose in the Holy Land of Calvary.
Our children are killed by your brothers
In the play time of the others.
YOU, for love, exchanged earth with heaven,
Love that you from grave away had driven,
Can it shake the dust from your eyes?
With a look of pride to realize,
How your brothers and accomplices killed,
Our own children and their Grails filled,
With their own blood, and flesh to dine,
Their FIRST SUPPER, to be pure and divine.
To pluck flowers to wash evil away''
They to their God heartily pray…
YOU, whose eyes the sky soared free.
To behold children's cheeks loaded with misery-
Can your lips your brothers ask why?
They ordered that our children must die.
And must be turned to ashes, the dreams and the joys
Of our angelic girls and youthful boys?
Please, don't say 'I'm dead… I'm dead
And worms ate my heart and filled my head'
If so, then write a curse and nothing more,
And I'll lead it where to soar,
Where to find children dying,
Where to find vultures flying,
It is here, there and everywhere,
Inside me where death does stir,
My utmost being to address you in grave.
So write it if you are honest and brave.
If not, then at least hear,
My last words loud and clear.
From all, death will claim heartbeats and breath
But it forever will spare 'The Cry of Death'