This poem is dedicated to all the fighters who are amidst the uncalled civil wars. The heaven symbolises the homeland for whom they are fighting not to free but to survive.
Born In the Heaven
He was born in the heaven,
It was March, nineteen eighty-seven.
Doctors were pleased to save his life,
But were in grief, as the mother didn’t survive.
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Sagina, was there since July ’86,
After being raped by a gang of six.
Fighting her unconsciousness and death,
Nourished the child, growing on her fate.
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The first days of his life were all black & white,
When he was fighting the death to survive.
Doctors were rushing in and out,
Desperation was to see him sprout.
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He survived, not as his fate decided,
He took birth, as only the doctors wanted.
As he was a challenge to their profession,
His survival was much needed for their succession.
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The first few years, he passed in a mosque,
Where he was adopted by a priest, Safaque.
He was growing there by the rules of Islam,
His first words were the verses of Holy Qur’an.
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In the days when world was still a paradise,
When peoples were to him good and nice,
He saw the first real nightmare,
As he saw ‘Abbu’ crying in despair.
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‘Abbu’ was shot thrice in his chest,
By the so-called disciples of Prophet.
Who were fighting their own ‘Jihad’,
And were redefining the word ‘Islam’.
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He was homeless as before,
Once again on his fate as before,
But was there a new tag on his forehead,
The name of his father, as against the fate.
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A policeman took his custody,
Life was once again showing the melody
But the melody lasted just a year,
When he’s left again, amidst his fear.
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The next years he worked in tea stall,
Where he was becoming thin, but tall.
The days were as painful as him,
His life a work without any theme.
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When he was just a mere, fourteen,
Got nabbed up, by a Mujahiddin,
The pen holding hand was now holding a gun,
Whose firings some time left him also, numb.
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The paradise transformed itself to, a hell,
He couldn’t move there without a veil,
His living was on snow and ice,
But got a new tag on his forehead, a new price.
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It was again the March, but 2004
He was lying there among the four.
He was shot dead by the military,
Who retaliated his untrained gun spree.
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Who was responsible for his death?
The militants? Who gave him the gun, for the food.
Or, the doctors? Who save him, to reach the adulthood.
Or his mother? Who unconsciously, but nourished his vein.
Or he himself? Who unknowingly, but was born in the heaven.
With Love Sourish
