Young Martyr of the Soil: Stop Turning Children into Terrorists by Fiza Pathan

Young Martyr of the Soil: Stop Turning Children into Terrorists
by Fiza Pathan

The earth echoes in the years so small like a tiny flame flicker,

Blood so red cut from your tender throat by shrapnel piercing;

Young are you in age but the wrinkles on your brow show the pain,

Aged before time to bleed your loyalty for a cause not your own.

Gun in hand they placed you infront of the line to fire,

Tiny hands smell of gunpowder as the machine guns shoot;

Little one grown you so tall in the eyes of the powerful,

Die you soundless in tears in the soil which turns you into dust.

Tie your matted hair with a green band to justify your cause,

Small & soft are your footfalls upon the sand drenched in blood;

You were taken from your mother’s bosom to tend to the cause,

Young martyr then why is your voice in silence cry out no more?

Ebony is your shiny skin & dark brown are your eyes,

You were meant for the slate to chalk out a future little soul;

Yet here you are gun in hand & cyanide capsule between teeth,

Simple are your coffins that they lay within the dust of loss.

Dirty are your black boots by threading too much in the desert,

Your sister has been violated so she takes up the rifle with you;

They have turned you all into an army of screams & shrieks,

Hear you not the sound of a grenade twisting flesh a burning.

Young martyr don’t rally your forces against your friends,

You are yet a child but fury has turned you into a monster;

Revenge of the avenger carries you along your path of doom,

Then will you return to the earth soulful in your final battle cry.

You use the dagger in your boot to scrap the rotten flesh,

You are burnt but you still want to fire at the unknown enemy;

Young one they have brainwashed you can’t you see with focus?

Red are the wounds of the tiny ones who sleep in the wilderness.

People of Humanity please cease to make martyrs of the young,

Clear out from your terrorist groups the innocent & the delicate;

What shall you gain but the anger of the silent God,

Who cries every time a young martyr is buried in the soil.

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