Humanitarian Poem by Mohammed Arshad Amin

A polished sign above the gate
A bright, clean logo, and grand
A promise written in the air
To heal a wounded, broken land
They preach of mercy from the stage
They hold the microphone so high
While keeping heavy, heartless boots
On those who only wish to try.

Your hours bled into their charts
Your quiet labor built their name
Yet when you asked for room to breathe
They turned your struggle into a game
To them, life is just a line
A metric on a funding slide
A deadline higher than a soul
A place where empty bosses hide.

They call it 'aid, ' they call it 'grace, '
They paint themselves in shades of white
Then treat the ones who do the work
Like shadows fading in the night
No policy will shed a tear
No spreadsheet feels the crushing weight
They trade in human misery
And invoice it as a noble fate.

So let the polished speeches fall
Let every hollow pillar break
There is no honor in a hand
That only gives to exploit and take
Their holy words are paper thin
Their kindness is just a practiced show
A corporate machine of stone
That never learned what heart to know.

— Mohammed Arshad Amin