From every coffin raised, to a mother’s wail

Published: May 8, 2016

In this photograph taken on December 8, 2015, Pakistani family members and parents of the victims of the deadliest Taliban assault on an army-run school in the northwestern city of Peshawar on December 16, 2014, react as they attend a ceremony at Peshawar University to pay tributes to the victims. PHOTO: AFP

The music isn’t loud enough to drown

The grief, the whimpering sounds.

I know not what their names are,

Just that they got caught up in this bloody war,

And I hope all the blood spilled,

Every penny the poor souls had paid,

Will be justified at the end of time.


Bodies to be seen for this unthinkable crime,

They will pay the price for this heinous deed,

Not fear, but of strength they planted a seed.

From each bullet hole will come out a rose,

And each scream will be wind that blows.


High above the empty town that didn’t lose,

Just rumpled from a little misuse,

They give the light to diminish any trouble,

To walk barefoot amongst the rubble,

From every coffin raised, to a mother’s wail,

The wind will be turning in this ferocious gale.


They will pay for turning our flower fields into battle fields,

No one will rest until their debt is settled.

But we won’t take on the weapons and turn,

The way you did for you got a place to burn.


All alone in a fire which will be hot,

When you lit that match to burn the shot,

The heat vanished and heaven sung melodies,

The doors swung open welcoming the legacies.


As it vanished, it poured into a pit in hell,

It will roast up that shrivelled blank shell,

That took up arms on the innocent eyes,

Ignored their wails and their hiccoughing cries,

They suffered to go to the place of glory,

To celebrate with angels their divine victory.


Maybe you wiped their smiles and tortured

Them to watch the twisted slaughter,

But this justice will catch up and you will pay,

For the mother’s tears you spilled that day.


And you won’t run back to any place,

You will feel the fire of the bodies you set ablaze.

It’s not jihad, its cold-blooded murder,

Of a father’s dream, a mother’s ardour.


Every tear, this day will be remembered,

Every shot heard that made the ground tremble.

But heaven awaited our beautiful angels,

As you shall bleed in the hell fire cradles,

For each flame sparked a fire that’s reaching height

A 122 dead, but now a 122 stars bright.

Ayesha Ishtiaq

Ayesha Ishtiaq

The author is a student at Headstart School, Islamabad. Her interests include reading and writing poetry. She tweets as @ayeshaishtiaq2 (

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