-Dedicated to the people of Malakand division (Written at Shah Mansoor Camp for IDPs near Sawabi)
The people of my motherland
I speak to you humbly
My eyes are wet and tongue is dry
I bow my head and kneel down
Kindly lend me your ears my brothers and sisters
Listen to my aching stomach
Look at the stigmata of my burnt skin
Witness the beauty of my sunken eyes
Then read the story flowing in these deep ocean eyes
How I am made to live homeless
Under the umbrella of scorching sun
How I am killed by my own army
Which is being fed on the blood of their own siblings
The president of my land is a great diplomat
Who knows no lingo other than of Dollars
I have lost my identity and found a new one
I know not how I should thank you
When so proudly you say to me
“You are not a refugee
You are just an Internally Displaced Person (IDP) ”
June 03,2009
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
words borne of agony...