Lying on the street, bathed in your blood, shorn of your clothes, draped in mud.
Out in the night,
called by the might, beaten black and blue, shot in plain sight.
Waking into doom,
the cities of gloom, where no fruits ripen, where no flowers bloom.
In the dead of the morning, you are assigned a number.
There is much peace now, with the town's enforced slumber.
The soil grows red,
the trees grow brown. Water is much safer,
on the lands you may drown.
The sun brightens your scars,
God does not flinch. The war regains it's glory,
God does not cringe.
In life or in death,
you couldn’t take your pick.
For we will never know you,
You are just a Statistic.
Just a Statistic
akilbakhshi@yahoo.co.in
