I rest in the puddles of my own remains,

and the pungent odor that reeks of the hypocrisy infecting Sialkot.

I bled for the innocence I died to claim.

My bones cracked and my eyes teared,

with each hit, each painful stroke.

I begged and I pleaded, “Forgive me, I have not committed!”

but dare I tell your truth, strip you of your essentials, too,

from what corner has your bravery ripened?

Could you not hear Allah beckoning your control,

tell me, what good name do you carry hero?

Aye soldier, big and bad, lay your women and hustle the game,

you’re no face of Islam, for there is no trace of peace.

Keep hidden in the shadows of your fucking shame.

Enjoy your guilt on your Ei’d-Ul-Fitr feast.

That day shall come when your darkened silence breaks,

may my screams ring in your ears,

while your conscience devours you more painfully than the lives you “righteously” take.

Shower in our blood and escape into our deaths, lost into a memory’s tornado,

tell me, what good name do you carry hero?

Pity on you, for while I am through Jannah’s gates,

you suffer restless and each guilty crease of your skin will stay blood stained.

You are left stranded to answer to our mothers, our fathers,

to the world for your unjust ways,

and your cursed life you will pathetically carry on like your own personal doom’s day.

I heard you bitching and felt your blood boiling,

but as I neared to my salvation,

ignoramus, I felt sorry for you and the future you are leading,

troubled for eternity in your filthy degradation.

Now that Satan claimed your soul so,

tell me, what good name do you carry hero?