they are not men or
women
but humans born with
blood and bones
they call crimes ‘love and
passion’
perhaps they hallucinate
when their blood dilutes
in anger
they have seen cuts in
their skins
and prepared themselves
to slice others
can we forgive them ever
in reality…
even if we know that
humans hurt back after
they suffer
what about the girl in me,
who cries each night
what about the boy in me,
who dies each morning
what about the wife in me,
who waits each afternoon
what about the husband
in me,
who hates to return each
evening
who are they, fleeting
crimes
or illusions that climb up
life and break dreams
the screams of voices
choked in pains
and we wait for miracles
to change our fates
rise, rise and let your
blood flow, if one has
hurt you let the world
know
only then the echoes will
reach million hearts and
break the web of hidden
masks
