The Complaint? Poem by Khan Ubaid

How many will you hang?
on the beds of fire,
choked by the ropes of iron,
in the prisons…
We called out
…
We called out,
in the closed rooms,
behind closed doors,
‘We are choking',
Even then, we were called slanderers,
‘It is just a noise'.
What will we tell then?
How will we tell then?
‘What is the difference between blood and color'.
Pleading without cry is voice,
only humans recognize,
in closed hearts,
holding the sorrows.
Little drizzle like complaint,
is not a dream in dark streets.
Businesses', Caravans move,
but those scars don't erase,
in those cemeteries,
those which are kicked,
and deceitful forts are built on them.