The unnamed poem
As the pages of history are turned
Their blood-stained pages not yet dry
New pages are always added
Old ones under new ones hide
A hasty reader’s attention
Doesn’t past the current page
What was read is half a blur
Comprehension, difficult to gauge
Just how the birth of a child
Desecrates the memory of the dead
Forgotten are the victims of old
As same enemies rear their heads
Is it then true sincerity?
To remember to heart only Syria?
What happened to Afghanistan?
To Bosnia and to Chechnya?
Aren’t the breasts of mothers,
In Somalia, still running dry?
Don’t the mouths of newborns
In Fallujah, unmoistened lie?
What happened to old Libya?
Are its people doing well?
Palestine is still in its place
Has Yemen’s unrest quelled?
Or is it because today’s concern
Is blasted over tv screens
Woldwide furore supporting it
Showing corpses, spleens and screams
Or is it because poor Afghanis
Have a different shade of skin?
Are Chinese Muslims too far apart
For our hearts to let them in?
There were no lavish fundraisers
No dinners or fiery speeches
When just 14, Abir was raped
Her Iraqi family watching her screetches
Are we naught but sheep then?
Seen as nothing more but tools?
To be maneuvered like common infants
And be found as extraordinary fools
Our allegiance is not defined
By the daily news report
All Muslims are ours
Their lands and all their ports
Till then, this is for the unnamed victim,
To the unnamed orphan, all of them,
With respect, to every unnamed widow,
Is dedicated, this unnamed poem.