“Little hands that splashed, my pantry door
And me, with the shades, of a mother
My Thomas, used to be, innocence galore
Not this Jihadi, a barefaced butcher!
Why he called them ‘pigs’, then to be, one of them?
‘Abdul Hakim’, was still, no problem, had he fathomed his new faith
‘Islam is Jihad, and Jihad, justified mayhem’
Never Muslim he became, just a Jihadi wraith!
I pity his hapless boyhood, those trysts with destiny
But anger ain’t the answer, in the guise of conviction
‘White Beast’ when he chose to be, indicted a mother, of ‘felony’
Alas! Chopping heads of ‘infidels’, his newfound ‘hallowed addiction’!
So sublime is to see Abdul die, my Thomas resurrect
May he burn in hell forever, my cherished castaway!
Whilst a mother, rues her rearing, thru her nervy introspect
‘Why Jihad Became, My Child’s Play’”!
© 2016 Vikas Chandra