Young Blood for Sale

By Mehreen Hamdany

 

Far from home, from the warm embrace of a mother,
He cowers under a flimsy desk, and chokes on the scream he tries to smother,
Above his head, lead was flying,
The air stained with smoke, and the stench of the dying.
On the black market of the faithless,
Young blood was on sale,
The blood of those before, of the wrong brand – too stale,
This blood was fresh, and still unspoiled,
Blood that was only slightly soiled.
Many moons before, another winter had crept,
On the coffins of others, who silently slept,
The sleep of martyrs, who can never die,
Death came only for those, who just watched and stood by.
They had not raised their voice, in that season of smoke and steel,
When bombs like ripened blooms burst apart,
When innocence was spilled, and crushed under heel,
Amidst terror, flames and fear, they awoke and took notice with a start.
On the market of black faith,
Young blood was on sale,
The memory of the blood before, now too stale,
This blood was from a body still soft and coiled,
The corpse of humanity slightly soiled.

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