O El-Fasher, heart of Darfur's sun-scorched sky,
Why did the world drift past as your children cry?
Villages quaked, and camps bowed to despair,
Eighteen months of shadow, of absence and air.
O children of the soil, whose laughter was torn,
Whose eyes held the night, whose light was outworn.
Bodies like autumn leaves, scattered and spent,
Tears pooling in silence, in grief unrelent.
Homes smoldered, seeds devoured by flame,
Rivers ran dry where life once came.
The cruel hand of violence, precise in its art,
Left nothing but echoes, hollow and apart.
Yet in the ashes, courage flickers and breathes,
In the mourning, a pulse that refuses to leave.
This was no chaos, no blind war's disguise,
But a deliberate hand, a genocidal rise.
O killing, O harm, O ruinous tide,
The world must awaken, cannot look aside.
Justice must thunder for the stolen, the slain,
For lives erased, for unbearable pain.
O El-Fasher, voices swallowed by flame,
We hear your lament, we carry your name.
Through smoke, through sorrow, through memory's tears,
We rise with you through the darkness, through the years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem