I Pledge To My Missing Soul

Have I suffered from the hands of the miscreants?

You bunch of thieves, takers of faith and killer of dreams

My words are lost but to you my pen shivers in pain

My ink is blood and my papers are thirsty 

My scream will come loud and so my wail in no words

You gave me my freedom with death lurked in it

My body is peeling and my soul dying; living dead, am I?

I am quavering and so my mother in grave

The one in which your soul-eating freedom is caught by the lungs

Death in white garments and a fleet of cars?

Then I'll write with my ink drenched in your blood

The wealth meant for the dead cramped in isolation

The weakening bred on the tiny bed struggle to survive

The homeless wanderer stung by bees of misfortunes

And the little kid shivering in cold with no shelter as home

And the little old man with an empty bowl crawling the street

Just like the living dead with lost faith, breached the spirit

The freedom you showed to which we're blindfolded

The pledge to which I hold, with my palm soaked with blood.