Wake Me Up Of This War, Maybe It's Just A Dream Poem by Parwez Hwma

A cloud preached my forehead.
Often, it starts raining.
Nostalgia arrested my throat,
it catches my imaginations, and putting them to my childhood yard.
I feel loss of strength,
splitting my body is easy enough,
such as a knife that cuts blood-clot.
I'm refugee in this hug.
I'm afraid of this scary motherland,
I'm afraid of a mistake hug which takes me to death's trysting.
A refugee for instance, who misses his mother,
yet the sea hugs him.
Darling,
In this dreadful war,
we're all seeking for freedom.
Bullet created a spring in my body, that
even hotness of Sonoran, Atacama and Niger deserts cannot heal it.
Rain, became my enemy,
its drops attack my wound.
One of my ribs is insisting to come out of my body.
Wake me up of this war,
maybe it's just a dream.
I wrote ‘'damn to war'' on a kite,
then I released the tale.
Now the kite, like a curse roams in the sky of my eyes.
Darling, where I shall get back to?
How can I kiss you?
In front of the mom that mines attacked her son,
and divided his body over death?
In case I get back,
war stays near to our breaths.
We see the fork as a sort of gun.
If we leave to another life,
war will admit us!
My lady,
smoke, turned our faces to black,
but each solder's breath is charged with love.
Yet, they're leaving in their wedding night.
They wore white clothes for their husband glory,
me as well:
I miss you as much as I miss the childhood streets.
I love you as much as I love the end of this war.