To the perished of Peshawar,
Civilians and soldiers,
I’ll remember this night for one hundred were slain.
To perished of Peshawar,
Whose blood runneth over,
I’ll remember this night for not knowing your names.
There’s a black plume ascending as a stain on the heavens,
Sent skyward by martyrs who’ve perjured their God.
What bitter rain will ease their deep burdens?
What lotus flower will bloom for their cause?
To the perished of Peshawar,
struggling ‘gainst violence,
I know not your family, your dreams, or your past.
To the perished of Peshawar,
Simmering to silence,
Your death has no face, and this is most sad.
By : winston-obrien
