Between fall from grace, of the, blood-red blooms
To the, widow-white sin, of the, poppy-tears
With the age, of uncertainty, that looms
Little Afghan angels, brave, learnt fears!

“Don’t stab deep, son, thru the soul, of the pod
Just a short, shallow scar, for her heart, to bleed
This substance, of sin, is our, newfound God,
Our destiny’s, sworn seed!”, sermons, Syed to Saeed!

Same poison, nurtures, both her sons
Land’s ethnic faith; fear, of Taliban
Life lingers on, two dimensions
To live, and die by, Holy Quran!

Existence, here, calls for, bloodbath
Pious is jihad, thus, peace is profane
This land, is deadened, to its aftermath
Where Poppies Bloom, In The, Farms Of Pain!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra