A mother was writhing in torments,
Giving birth to her child.
If she could know that her son
Drowned the World in a blood.
That humanity called her son
The Tyran.
And he carries this name
With his bloody pride.
That he’ll be a judge and a butcher
Against the life.
That he’ll make cry the whole World
With his bloody, mad mind.
Again he declares a war.
Who knows, why he does?
Again he asserts his claim
With name of Allah.
He doomed to the shame his nation,
His mother, his children.
He turned the Great Koran
Into unthinkable delirium.
Osama Bin Laden he is.
Oh, no, he’s a Slave of the Evil!
With his bloody servile soul,
He’s able to bring only death.
You, mother, who gave birth to him,
To the Greatest of killers, to Tyran.
Oh, how could you create
The Last of the foes?
17.08.2003, The Poetry Convention, Washington DC
The tyran
© Copyright: Любовь Мозолевская, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103092800395
Свидетельство о публикации №103092800395
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