I Am Not Ready To Die Even For Myself Poem by Abdul Wahab

Life is precious
Which they don’t deny
Yet under their rhetoric
They want me to die
For the country
For the religion
Friend, I am fed up
With their astounding hypocrisy
And slowly losing the grip of sanity
Of my mind like leaves of autumn tree
Falling apart, scattered all around
The thrust of repulsion is so strong
No courage I gather to collect them upon
No change of winds I see
The whole system seems to stand still
Roots are shaken
Boughs are reluctant to grow
Nowhere to go
Nowhere to find truth
Trap of falsehood is set everywhere
Bluffs are hovering in the air
The fear of missing freedom
Crawling like a leach
Humiliation of being cheated upon
Spinning in the mind like a top
Friend, even trust I do not invest
Upon my ungrateful soul
Let alone on a piece of land
Or on a plate of treacherous sentiments
I am happy to be rootless
Above the layers of all narrowness
Like a gust of wind whose boughs spread
Beyond the men-invented boundaries
Friend, how I can die for the gangs of pretty thieves
In fact, I am not ready to die for myself
Before the arrival of death
Pity for those who are be-fooled
And died a death for nothing but falsehood.