To a mother land who has lost her children and her people,
I used to write the names of people that I liked on the palm of my hands,
But your children write their own names to be remembered in death.
With a burial unasked for, they find your children under rubble, and you are forced to recognise
The bodies covered in their crimes.
Unlike the stories I’ve read, even death did not touch the spring of humanity,
Nor did your cries and begging reach the States, how can they be United for such a cause?
Their policies have preached violence on their own children, how can you ask them to listen to your pleas?
You are nothing but a common cold to them, there is no cure, they say.
And they will not let your children play.
Dreams now immigrate to die. Your death toll has been treated a mere statistic. 
Feeding a database.
And as you burn in innocence,
They make of it, packets of incense.
By taxing their citizens,
And what do you get in return? Fulfilled threats?
They have framed your death as a suicide.
We know of the truth. What do we do with this truth?
Why must you be the one to lie in it?
They treat you with treason for being of another ethnicity.
Such treatment feeds their greed, as it is not their God or prayer they are destroying.
How have we become an audience? Watching,
Policies hatching.
You have been screaming for far too long. And they cannot hear you.
Who do you pray to? When we have failed you?
Is this when your religion saves you?
And your only relief becomes death.
When they hear of this crime, the courts are sighing,
But another step, they do not take, as it is not their children dying

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