The Death of Hind | Murzban Jal

Hind!
O, gentle Hind.
You were barely a few years old,
Not deserving to die.
But you did die,
Or should one say, murdered.

Not by a stray bullet,
But by the wrath of the Promised Land,
Where not peace prevails,
But rage,
Of dreams of past glory.

To save yourself, you fled,
With your mother, father, siblings and friends
And they, all
One by one,
Were shot.

Not by snipers,
But by the wrath of the Promised Land
And you cried out
Pleading for help,
Which never came,
In the Promised Land.

So we say,
Farwell dear Hind,
You homeless in your own home,
You who once was fire,
Now turned into mere dust.