You're too dark to be seen, my friend

You may cry till your eyes get dry

You won't be noted, you won't be heard

'cause you're too dark to be seen, my friend

You're like a black miner beneath the rubble

A thousand feet below

With broken bones you wail

But who can feel your pain?

You may cry till your eyes get dry

You won't be noted, you won't be heard

'cause you're too dark to be seen, my friend

You're like a pygmy nailed to a tree

In the heart of a lonesome forest

Who can hear your painful moaning

And rush to set you free?

You may cry till your eyes get dry

You won't be noted, you won't be heard

'cause you're too dark to be seen, my friend

You're like a stow-away floundering

In a surging solitary sea

Who can hear your frenzied screams

And carry you to safety?

You may cry till your eyes get dry

You won't be noted, you won't be heard

'cause you're too dark to be seen, my friend

Mighty Katrina

Katrina mighty Katrina

You have stormed the American arena

Wind and water, water and wind

Have turned the prince into a pauper

The donor into a vagabond

Wind and water, water and wind

Have turned the giant into a midget

The space explorer

Into a hopeless ant

Wind and water- the divine WMD

Made the Yankee arrogance fizzle out

And their dignity blemish shamefully

Katrina mighty Katrina

You have stormed the American arena.

A human herd

The lorry was packed with unchained Indian slaves:

A nondescript cattle-like mass of meat.

Their eyeballs flashed in the blue darkness of daybreak-

A human herd daily dispatched

Not to the slaughterhouse,

But to the contractor's

Building site.

The little Kosovar

The little Kosovar appeared on the screen:

His lonesome face, stupefied with sorrow,

Bespeaks the ordeal of a million face

Mutilated by the demonic horde

Of the ku Klux Clan of Kosovo.

His eyes are still and silent like a tomb.

Their blue is so deep. Yet, they are hollow,

Shrouded and benumbed in a mist of doom.

His once radiant stare has been blinded

By the goggling soot of memory

Dripping with an unabated beat,

The oozing of dread and atrocity,

The crippling, grimly sinister sight

Of two young sisters being gang-raped,

A father having his throat cut off,

A mother's heart rent with pain and grief.

And, amid the stampede and panic,

A senile grandmother left behind

To face an all certain destiny,

Because she is too old and sick.

His once dulcet stare has been deafened.

It can only hear the ghoulishly

Gory growl of the Serbian wolves,

The crash of doors being battered down,

The pounding of thick boots on the floor,

A voice saying with guns keen to shoot:

"get out of here, you have just an hour

To pack off and set elsewhere your roots".

His once fluent stare has been muted

And cruelly fretted by the fierce shrieks

Of his rabbits being slaughtered,

The crack of fire grinding to ashes

His books, his clothes, his toys and pets,

His knick-knacks, his room, his school and roots.

Thus senseless, his eyes seem to be dead.

The only trace of life in them is

A large tear miraculously held

On the tip of his colourless cheek.

It is a posthumous testimony

Of a lost longing to be jolly,

A liquid grief that bridges the gap

between past and present, here and there,

And echoes, in its crystal purity,

The eerie, lugubrious memories

Of the poor, lonesome little Kosovar.

Mr Kosovo

- SOS, who's speaking?

- Mr Kosovo

- Can you spell it please?

- Yes, madam

K for killing

O for ordeal

S for slaying

O for obscenity

V for victimizing

O for obloquy

- KOSOVO, is that so?

- Yes, madam, exactly

Punch ball

Beat it as vigorously as you can

Thump it as viciously as you desire

Kick it as cruelly as you want

Don't worry

It won't budge

It won't scream

Or even say ouch

It won't sigh

Let alone sob or cry

But if ever it dares to

Tear it to pieces

Smash it to smithereens

Crush it

Squash it

What is it after all?

Isn't it a mere punch ball?

a punch ball nicknamed Muslim?

TERRORIST, TERRORIST

They seized my land in the name of God,

Eradicated my olive trees for the sake of their prosperity,

Reduced my house to rubble in the name of the Bible,

Ruined, my life, my dreams, my family,

Obliterated my identity and said I was WANTED,

Repudiated me and said: 'Who is he'?

I then took to arms and said death or victory

So they set the world against me and howled

TERRORIST, TERRORIST

Buisson Cœur de Lion

Du haut de son glorieux trône, ardent et zélé

Buisson* coeur de lion harangua ses troupes ainsi :

« Hommes d’armes, lances de l’empire

Chevaliers de la Sainte-croix

A vos harets, à vos armures

La croisade pour la liberté a commencé

Au nom du Père, du Fils et du Saint-Esprit

Marchez, marchez chevaliers de la Sainte-Croix

Rien ne doit arrêter

Notre marche contre la tyrannie

Que le Tigre s’enflamme

Que l’Euphrate s’embrase

Que crèvent les nourrissons, bourgeons du mal

Que périssent les enfants, ces terroristes nés

Au nom de Notre-dame de la Liberté

Marchez, marchez chevaliers de la Sainte-croix

Rien ne doit arrêter

Notre marche contre la tyrannie.

Bénis soient nos béliers défonceurs

Bénies nos catapultes aux boules intelligentes

Bénis nos chevaux de fer volant

Et nos forteresses sur les mers flottant

Au nom des opprimés de Babylone

Marchez, marchez chevaliers de la Sainte-Croix

Rien ne doit arrêter

Notre marche contre la tyrannie.

Marchez contre vents et marées

Malgré les quelques voix

Qui criaillent et s’égosillent

Dans maints royaumes et duchés

Au nom de la justice et la paix

Marchez, marchez chevaliers de la Sainte-Croix

Rien ne doit arrêter

Notre marche contre la tyrannie

Que le sang coule à flots

Que la douleur déchire les coeurs

Que les roses de Babylone se fanent

Que l’herbe verte noircisse

N’est ce pas là le prix amer de la Liberté ? »

Du haut de son glorieux trône, ardent et zélé

Buisson coeur de lion ainsi harangua ses troupes.

Farhat Ahmed Ali

* Bush (George) en Anglais