Wahab Abdul Poet I do not know?

I Am Not Ready To Die Even For Myself

Life is precious 
Which they don’t deny 
Yet under their rhetoric 
They want me to die 
For the country 
For the religion 
Friend, I am fed up 
With their astounding hypocrisy 
And slowly losing the grip of sanity 
Of my mind like leaves of autumn tree 
Falling apart, scattered all around 
The thrust of repulsion is so strong 
No courage I gather to collect them upon 
No change of winds I see 
The whole system seems to stand still 
Roots are shaken 
Boughs are reluctant to grow 
Nowhere to go 
Nowhere to find truth 
Trap of falsehood is set everywhere 
Bluffs are hovering in the air 
The fear of missing freedom 
Crawling like a leach 
Humiliation of being cheated upon 
Spinning in the mind like a top  
Friend, even trust I do not invest 
 Upon my ungrateful soul 
Let alone on a piece of land 
Or on a plate of treacherous sentiments 
I am happy to be rootless 
Above the layers of all narrowness 
Like a gust of wind whose boughs spread 
Beyond the men-invented boundaries 
Friend, how I can die for the gangs of pretty thieves 
In fact, I am not ready to die for myself  
Before the arrival of death 
Pity for those who are be-fooled 
And died a death for nothing but falsehood.

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