There were a people,
In a forgotten fold of time..
They killed their men and women..
for a cause they were really proud
as a sacrifice..
Daily a heart ripped of a being..
The Priests felt mighty and high..
The dead then rolled down the stairs..
As death itself couldn’t suffice
The sun-god and his blood lust..
They were to rule forever
their ritual was in extreme divine
Yet those very clergymen,
perished at the hands of time..
There are people today,
who would have made the Aztecs proud.
A single victim each day???
Their sun-god wants a thousand taken down
Their names scribbled with crayons
on limbless,cold chests..
death will not take away love and name
their people made sure of that..
And what about the living dead??
with blasting bullets and pelts
coloring every inch of their skin
They are dying a slow death.
Mourning is the season,then.
A Spring nurtured of blood and gore,
A hope that murdered a generation…
A thousand autumns were better still
Forget Democracy and freedom,
these words seem too high and mighty now
The only absence that bothers me now..
is a noun called
Iss khoonchakaan bahar se
jis ki ik ik shaak,
khoon ka khiraj manti hai,
maoun ki goud ujarti hai,
Maut ke khuas o khisa se
aur nafratoon ke rakhs se…
iss suraaab numa khawaab se
k jis ki aass me sab khakster hai
jab aasman lahoo se gulaab rang
aur dharti lashoon se bojhal ho
k ye wo basant hai
jis me sab thahey taigh hain
Aisi khushaali se…
hazar khizaan ke mausam
-Syeda Maham N