I think it was some ghost of yesteryears,
knocked on the doors of worshippers;
A centuries old, grudged spirit had come alive,
concocted horror and rage to live and thrive.
Carved was the year and the place on his firearm,
that day, the spirit had recalled the dead past,
smeared his hands playing bloody game twice.
With his insane moves put the groups to sacrifice.
For sure, you’re not the Roman, they were not the Ottomans,
we’re mere strugglers in life’s terrible grind, we’re humans;
Following an obsolete book of diatribe,
you decided the fate of fifty poor lives.
Crescent and cross can’t harmonize in a bloodbath,
can’t thrive ensuing mayhem amid unaware stalwarts;
You can’t purge souls as per your whims and fancies;
For the peace to prevail we need to mend our fences.
Copyright © March 2019 DrNikhat Bano All rights reserved