They leave, their hearths, for 30 Riyals
For nirvana, at least, it seems
‘Petty’ pilgrims, of, piteous rationales
Dare, to be, martyrs, of their dreams!

In a, soulless ‘Utopia’, of crude, and sand
And a faith, that wreaks, prejudice and fears
Every day, is a pyre, in an, estranged land
A dire, ‘Dystopia’, of, dreadful profiteers!

Whilst, world awaits, another, FIFA Cup
There are, many sons, who won’t return
Except, as souvenirs, of, cleanup
With a fist, of Riyals, and tons, of spurn!

Vain martyrs, end, their pilgrimage
Under, lone tombstone, of, oblivion
Whilst world, celebrates, o’er their outrage
Whose Glory, Drowned In, Tears Of Sun!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra