They say, my lullabies impair plus than
menacing propulsion of lead sling, a lot more.
Oh my poor lullabies! Oh my dear lullabies!
Let these streets mourn your demise.
Sang you was of only the unrequited love,
glittered in this green grass tips,
spraying the revision of peace,
damped to flat by pacing boots, in brutality.
Weep you was of the naivety
in my son’s minuscule fingers forced
to hold on hardness of a grenade,
Forgetting the wimpy elation of dolls
he played on with the past moment.
Praised you was of my mother’s defiance,
bearing the hundreds of bodies,
which on each piercingly labelled
of the frith fruited in the dark redness,
long left unqualified to instigate.
The time had come, oh my lovely lullabies!
A time long awaited to deflower
the mines blossomed in these garden,
to drain the lakes smelling of blood and bones,
to stop the silence from being guillotine.
I pray the lullabies to defiant as ever more,
to echo through these streets no-ever lasting,
to raise hands in unison,
to live in our veins for hope bestowed.
And at this time,
Burying my friends, my mother,
My youth, my humanity,
I hope my lullabies trembles more
louder than gunshots and blasts.
I hope my lullabies are stronger.