Poems

Wolf in Men

There is a tale, both old and wise,
Of lambs becoming wolves beneath the skies.
A gentle lamb, pure and meek,
Chained by a shepherd cruel and bleak.

Sustenance placed near, yet just out of reach,
A torment devised, a cruel lesson to teach.
Mocked with names, accused of sin,
”A beast,” they claimed, ”it had always been.”

In hunger’s grip, the lamb would strain,
Stretching its neck through endless pain.
Its body grew lean, its form transformed,
By fear and hunger, its soul was stormed.

The sleepless nights, the fiery eyes,
Born of torment, beneath cruel skies.
It gnawed at chains to ease the strife,
Sharpened teeth forged by the fight for life.

Once gentle, trusting, and pure of soul,
The lamb became a wolf—its innocence stole.
For cruelty, not nature, changed its fate,
Forged by pain into a creature of hate.

A dreamer I am, with visions that take flight,
A father who yearns for a world bathed in light.
At dawn, I awaken with hope in my chest,
To weave something better, to give it my best.

But fear whispers close, a shadow in me,
That the world’s harsh storms might alter what I see.
For though I have suffered, endured, yet stayed true,
The wolf tempts my soul with what I could do.

I fear that despair might poison my heart,
And lead me astray, to a darker part.
To lose my way, to forget my creed,
Would let the wolf take root in me.

For if I turn wolf and they follow my call,
The world will sink in war and fall.
What hope can remain, what light will endure,
If the lambs of today turn wolves for sure?

But as a lamb, I guard their way,
Hoping for peace to hold sway one day.
I dream for my children, a thousandfold bright,
To walk as lambs, bathed in pure light.

But if I let the wolf claim my heart,
Their innocence, too, may be torn apart.
The love I hold and the hope I bear,
Could vanish like smoke, lost to despair.

I come from a cradle, a beacon so grand,
The heart of wisdom, knowledge’s stand.
Where Avicenna healed, his Canon renowned,
And Al-Khwarizmi’s math set the world adorned.

Where Rumi’s verses lit hearts aflame,
His words eternal, a guiding frame.
And Al-Biruni’s stars forever proclaim,
The glory of knowledge, the beauty of names.

A land of scholars, poets, and light,
Once the lamp that banished the nights.
But this lamb of a land is now broken by strife,
Pushed to the edge, stripped of its life.

From menace to terror’s cruel blade,
The lambs have turned wolves, and innocence fades.
The valleys once filled with laughter and song,
Now echo with cries of all that’s gone wrong.

I’ve seen hands, once kind, now stained in red,
Where hope should bloom, despair grows instead.
The dreams they cradled turned to despair,
Lost in the darkness, consumed by dare.

Their sons took up arms, their daughters knew hate,
Their hopes devoured by a twisted fate.
Where love once thrived, vengeance grew,
And the lambs they nurtured, to wolves they flew.

The valleys razed, streets soaked with tears,
I’ve seen the legacy of fathers’ disappear.
The wolves they became, forged by despair,
Left their children to inherit the snare.

Yet I plead with the shepherds who hold the chain,
Do not let lambs be broken in pain.
For it’s not the lamb, but the weight you impose,
That turns it to the wolf, to the path it now goes.

Let mercy prevail, let chains fall apart,
And give back the lamb its innocent heart.
For if the lamb can remain as it should,
Its children may thrive, in a world that is good.

Let me stay the lamb I strive to be,
For my children’s sake, so they may see,
A future of peace, a world without strife,
Where lambs walk free and honor life.

Echos in the Air!

When the bomb explodes, the world contracts,
A sudden flash, blinding all in its tracks.
The light, a dagger to sight, burns the air,
The sound, a thunder, stripping life bare.

Deafened senses grasp at what remains,
A silence steeped in unspoken pains.
An unfamiliar taste creeps through the frame,
A ghostly flavor, yet without a name.

Eyes behold mouths, wide with despair,
Yet their cries are lost in the deafening glare.
The air hums heavy, a hollow refrain,
A soundless scream etched in pain.

Legs tremble, the earth quakes below,
The heart pounds wild, desperate to go.
As if to break free, to escape this fate,
From the grasp of terror, too cruel, too great.

Deafened senses grasp at what remains,
A silence steeped in unshed chains.
An unfamiliar taste creeps through the frame,
Lingering on the tongue, a shadow of flame.

The air, now thick, bears sorrow’s weight,
A grim reminder of mankind’s fate.
The ground beneath, once steady and sure,
Now trembles with fear it cannot endure.

Eyes search for solace, but none is found,
Only the echoes of destruction resound.
The horizon bleeds, its colors torn,
A canvas painted with despair and scorn.

Red, once vibrant, a symbol of life,
Now bleeds despair, a shade of strife.
It screams in puddles, pools of pain,
A cry for repair, but all in vain.

The soul recoils, yet dares to feel,
A fragile hope beneath the steel.
For even in darkness, embers glow,
A flicker of light the heart may know.

The air bears a stench, a bitter disguise,
Of burning life and dreams that demise.
The charred remains of what once was whole,
A pungent mix that scars the soul.

Gunpowder lingers, acrid and raw,
A breath of despair, a chemical law.
This scent, no fleeting phantom or trace,
It roots itself in memory’s embrace.

Mother of the Unreturned!

O Mother of the Unreturned

The nights stretch long, the winds are still,
In shadows deep, she climbs the hill.
Her gaze fixed west, to Sednaya’s gate,
Where hope collides with crueler fate.

O mother, frail, yet standing tall,
The prison loomed, its shadow called.
Within those walls, her sons once lay,
Or vanished where the dark holds sway.

Her tears have carved the stones she kneels,
The earth absorbs the grief she feels.
”Release my sons!” her whispers plead,
But the echoes mock her desperate need.

Sednaya’s halls were tombs of stone,
Where voices faded, dreams disowned.
Its chambers cold, no light would dare,
Only despair lived buried there.

O mother!
Your sons once played in the olive grove,
Their laughter rang as the seasons wove.
Now silence grips the air once sweet,
Their names unspoken on the street.

The years have passed, yet no word came,
The guards were cruel, their faces the same.
”Are they alive?” the whispers grow,
”Or buried deep where none will know?”

O mother!
Your waiting is a hymn of loss,
Each day a prayer, each step a cross.
And though Sednaya is now no more,
Its specter lingers forevermore.

No walls remain, no gates to see,
But scars endure in her memory.
The sons she lost, their fates unknown,
Her cries unanswered, she stands alone.

O mother!
Though shadows stretch where Sednaya stood,
Its ghosts still haunt this fractured wood.
The world forgets, but you remain,
Bound to Sednaya’s lasting stain.