Afghanistan poem

The streets are lined with blood,
The dust is coloured red,
The Orphan lies abandoned,
Without food, water, or bed,

The once enchanting city,
Is now the capitol of fear,
The world has shut it's heart,
Pretending not to hear,

The once green hills and valleys,
Are now pits of graves,
The once safe home to run to,
Is now a killer blade,

The once heard noise of laughter,
Is now the wail of grief,
The lives of many children,
Are wretched and very brief,

With every drop of laugher,
The birds they used to sing,
Now with every drop of blood,
The trees and mountains ring,

The morning call to prayer,
Is shattered by the sounds,
Of early morning fighting,
Upon civilian grounds

The martyrs are gone,
Now the Muslims fight each other,
Where is the Muslim Ummah,
To care for one another.

You can call yourself a scholar,
You can say you are a king,
But when your fellow humans die,
You hide and do nothing,

You can sit and say it's sad,
But it will never be good,
The troubled lives of those people,
Will never be understood,

And all the time the world,
Thinks it fun to sit and see,
All the poor, and dying Afghans,
Crying in their plea,

And it seems that as their blood,
Drips uncontrolled,
The story of he truth,
Will never be told,

Now the whole world is its enemy,
No one wants to strive,
While the world is merrymaking,
Afghanistan is burned alive.

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