My Desolated Land and I

Centuries are done! But my land and I exist yet, Under the visage of desolation, Camouflaged by an arrogant power; Bloody soldier, assassin, executioner Amending, mastering it; While I stay in abstract hatred, Robbed off my cream of youth, Whose blood has left no stain; There, on the blood-saturated land, And set up, halted in mockery, I watch the mockery of time prevail; While my clamors rise and die, From waning throats void of charm; Yet, claiming to breach the walls, These labyrinthine walls rosy-red! Painted by the blackened blood of innocence, Leading a stair of my ancestral stair! Persecuted by that savage beast, Still, famished, void is their gut! And to my rueful disaster, I slumber! Cushioned by my half-dead people Walking in the procession of death; Towards their safe haven. But I exist yet, Brooding upon my mute calamity; That brings naught but humiliation, Before my soul; Crestfallen; Plagued every day and every night, By dint of a dawdling tempest, Lingering upon my lamely eye, Lamenting upon my beleaguered land, For my heaven has come to a stroke of doom!