A lament for Mashal Khan
The trees begin to cry and plead,
The vultures touch the inevitable deed,
Blood in the bare naked streets,
A bullet with the heart meets.
The sticks now mere knives cutting the morning bud,
The head, with all its power, begins to climb but is stopped with a single thud,
The skull, born from dust, caved in back,
The skin trampled, the wounds in life lack.
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