A People Subdued

After reading a certain post on sandmonkey's blog I have something to say.

I've certainly gone to bed many times with utter disdain for my countrymen. Egyptians are a people subdued; for so long that they can't do anything but be passive even when given the chance to do something, and probably just out of sheer habit.

There were those who escaped arrests and that in itself is hopeful. It's hopeful because one day we may be able to escape the tyranny inflicted upon us by our own countrymen.

Enemy Drums

I woke up to the sound of drums,
But they were not music, they were bombs,
Yet with precision was the rhythm of their sound,
Every two seconds, three would hit the ground.

Four of my neighbor’s five children died,
And amidst the bombs the one that survived,
Buried his siblings all day long,
Wondering what it is they did wrong.

The sound of bombs muted our own,
And this was no longer for us a home,
But there’s no escape from where we are,
The helping hands and hearts are far.

But it wasn’t that which choked our souls,
Hearing the news was like eating burning coals,
Five were wounded from the enemy’s side,
While one hundred of my neighbors died.

Yet the story of those five was written in one large page,
Condemnation was bitter and it was told with such rage,
And the hundred were mentioned in half a line,
Any tears for us just had to be dried.

We’re dying but terrorists is what we’re called,
They play their drums, but with us the world's appalled.
The voices of hundreds who died, unheard,
The pleading of wailing mothers deferred.

The news, it burns, it tells the enemy's story,
And it seems as though they suffer with glory.
But in our land we’re slaughtered and killed,
And their lust for murder is never fulfilled.

So hear my voice or let me die,
Listen to my truth and decide if it’s a lie,
But don’t keep me waiting for too long,
I’m dead very soon, but I’ll take others along.

I’m a rat in a cage, tortured without end,
The torturer kills and for help he will send,
He will cry like a victim and torture me again,
Strong are his allies and feeble are my friends.

Not a word of those four children was said,
They’re sleeping in their graves, their killer in his bed.
Those innocent dead are criminals in the world’s eyes,
And still the drums keep beating with lyrics made of lies.