Internally Displaced In The War On Terror..

Our house, the mixture of
mud and stones,
was feeble, yet it homed
our aspirations
in all the moods of life;
when the sun smiled,
or the clouds roared,
or the sky wept
or the winds howled.

It didn't crumble
with natural blows
but the man-made woes,
in the shape of shells
of metal and mortar
pierced its body.
Collapsed,it could
shield us no more

Survival took us by the hand
to a refugee camp and we
were stamped as I.D.P's.

Our dreams, inhumed in
our rubbled home, scream
to call us back; they cry
when we beg for the bits of life.

We cannot wait to redeem
ourselves by helping our home
to stand on its feet.
We pray for the beast of
violence to retreat.
An era of peace could only
make our home complete,
where we could evolve
our dreams for our
coming generations.