At midnight I go to bed but cannot sleep,
hear in air the suppressed and the oppressed cry.
Some are crying under bombing, some for hunger;
What can I do for them?
My pen replies, 'Take me and compose such a poem,
by which the oppressors may be taught a lesson.'
My sword says, 'Seize me and start the war. For survival,
there's no substitute for dying and killing some culprits.'
I take the pen in one hand, the sword in another.
My blood starts dancing. By that dance,
eating and sleeping of mine have been stopped utterly.
Sayeed Abubakar
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-midnight-12/
