Basra Days

By Aiman S. Ahmed

She lived in this strange country where I am now

Before returning to Basra with grandma
Father was a teacher, mum played guitar
With round-eyed gaze, Hiba watched the moat
O free country, why have you caged my friend?
O free country, I'm not your salesman!
And as I walk your streets, I miss home
Where there was no blood of the poor
I guess you don't like me anymore
Because I oppose your wars of conquest
And the price to pay as you trail
The footsteps of predatory Uncle Sam
Where is my flag, you ask
Or do you forget there's a hole in my heart
Big enough for a bullet to pass
As you rip the carcass of the dead?
Beasts are nursed in your clinics
But humanity is shattered abroad
And Hiba was a child, what do you suppose?
O free country, have you seen my friend?
O free country, make a thousand amends!
I stumble in the dark with your crimes
My only respite is to speak out time after time
You say I am a supporter of terrorism
You say I'm anti-patriot and anti-American
It's because you don't know me
I was sad when they blasted off those palaces
In New York, Bali, Madrid and London
The screams of people, rage and fire
But did you ever pause to think of the unheard
In Kama Ado, Fallujah, Baghdad and Basra?
Did you allow them two minutes of silence?
But I love, too, and this poem is my proof
They also bleed when you cut them
I didn't know before I knew Hiba
Her Basra days under the drone of gunship


Aiman S. Ahmed is a writer and critic. To read more of his work, visit http://peaceablesword.blogspot.com/ He can be contacted at youth_campaign@iolteam.com

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