The Game Of Butchery Poem by Muhammad Shanazar

Bomb blast then holocaust,
Blood here, blood there,
And blood all around
Is the fate of my countrymen.
The down trodden are crushed,
The rulers just condemn the deed on T.V,
Sitting in the warm chambers in winter,
Air conditioned in summer,
And ask us to be patient a little more,
Till we reach ashore,
On the ship with no pilot.

Human shreds scatter,
Amid the burnt destroyed vehicles,
Legs here, arms there,
Pieces of heart splatter on the walls,
And skulls lay on the roofs,
All jumbled, unrecognizable.
The game of butchery is played every day,
At the busy spots,
But only the play ground is changed,
And the bodies go to different grave-yards.