Poems by


a poem by Sheeba

I walk through a large amount of debris
Through the valleys of death
A place where dreams lay buried
Beneath the atmosphere of threat.

A distant voice falls in my ears
And my mind goes in search
the cry of a child
in a warland wild.

Where even hopes are hopeless
the baby lays there
not wrapped in silk or linen
but in blood stained clothes.

let this be
the negation of tomorrow’s world.