In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful
It's as if they had entered the land in dying.
A walking tanks, the rate of their last moments.
Turbans are tight but the wounds of war run deep. And in hell
Afghan prayers and tears mingle.
They will never defeat: they will leave or they will perish.
From their fire, their blood, the armies of Allah, take hold.
And who will go will be haunted by this memory:
Muslims invincible once they manage to unite.
They sprayed villages of peaceful civilians.
Children playing, consumed by the blast of the missiles.
The turbans of the war, their troops will be deployed.
They will regret the violence they have used.
Innocent victims still echo with the screams. Our brothers
most intimate are so far from our eyes massacred.
Under the iron and fire, bombs and lead, they survive.
The light of love is that they will always be more intense. And
invaders burn in this hell Afghan. Winters were icy
hopes of victory in their camp. They will never
export their culture by force.
And every assault the nation of the Prophet is increasing.
Abu Hind 2010.
0 comments:
Post a Comment