A Blight - For Benezir a Bhutto

What makes a man in the face of death Commits to lead and surrenders breath? I saw him hanging from a tree Not quite Christ, but just the same There was an apostophe in that history. The people are such a swallow flame; When I was young the fire burnt longer, And after that we all were stronger Who helped to carry the petty burden Of a dream. The crowd is hardened Too little for a sacrifice of the queen - So the great warrior is fallen Sacrificed in the game. Who was the fiend? Whose bullet blighted the pardon Issued from the cross? O, Benezir, We have no leader because we have no seer. A man does not die simply for hate again More convoluted now the plot that brings the pain.