A Terrorist's Vengeange
He’s a rose’s thorn anchors into the populous city, one morning,
Then ploughs a thick line from a district to another.
Only a plow defines the injury by the depth of that line--
Intense or not, depends on how deep the thorn has tilled.
The mourns of people means the injury is severe,
Streams of blood trickle to seas in crimson clear.
The stampede of the beings in a disarrayed vortex--
Like the rush of the endangered wild in the jungle.
Tears and pains in the citizens’ hearts, unending,
Longing and yearning to be oblivious of that day.
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