The Rhythm of the World

This morning in Aleppo Was bloodshed Gunshots, RPGs, Bomb blast Like the achaba suicide bomber Of Kaduna A little boy I Syria is running To escape the shrapnel of The shooter’s shells and mortars A disillusioned almajiri is planting Local explosives in a church Somewhere in Borno. My bedroom receives Fresh percolation of sun rays Early morning sun rays It reminds me How we used to sing do re mi A female deer A drop of golden sun A name I call myself. But where have they all gone? The songs Where have they gone?