Youthful Days Poem by Ahmed Aedan

Under the watchful eyes of the death-bearing window,
I quivered in silence,
holding my hands as though there is no tomorrow.
I shook my head in understanding,
in truth, none was apparent,
But I knew not what to think, less to act.
I was afraid from the raid;
it eats everything, dead or alive,
Save me, I want a nonviolent future.
Remorse of the inveterate hatred,
the ever-lasting medication,
The hopeless indication: no tomorrow.
I cried or wept
under the watchful eyes of the death-bearing window,
Till the day when the sun raised from the depth of the night,
And shined upon the stature view of the domicile under which I lied,
There I realized,
when I finally awoke from the slumber under which
I was deprived of
every perception, all energy, and satisfaction,
when I was rid of all
Hypnotics, it came to me: induce of my cognition,
the inevitable gist of superficial:
I wasn't alone; I was merely a target of the known: war.