What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns...
Poems forever
By Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,—
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
By Rumaissa Chouhan
O my heart, my land, my Middle East
Light of the eyes and smile of the lips
Crown of the earth, pearl of the seas
Hearts bleed when they see your streets
Your walls once fragrant with love and poetry
Your women, fiery, your men of gallantry
Your cities like stars that shine brightly
Made the world green-eyed, with your
throngs of the merry
You were the land where the sun never set
Your riches ignited envy and your rise sparked fret
To a world of darkness, your light became a threat
And you were made someone that a
world now dread
Your light, dimmed, your treasures looted,
your land scarred
The wound never healed and the bleeding
never stopped
With each passing day, hope is lost
My Middle East, O my bleeding heart
By Esha Bakht
Life is a journey
Full of adventures
All you have to do is
Dive deep into oceans
Soar high up in the sky
Move to places unknown
Before the time is gone
By Umaima Hoorain
Sitting in class,
everything quiet,
weather cloudy,
the sky grey.
I look at the girl across from me.
She’s been pretty down these days,
which is funny,
because she makes everyone laugh in the morning.
No one seems to notice.
Then I look at the girl who’s asleep.
She’s always tired.
I wonder why.
I look at the girl bored out of her mind,
I wonder what she's thinking about.
I look at the teacher -
she looks happy today.
I’ve never seen her smile before.
I always think about how
everyone has their own little life:
their problems,
their silent struggles,
their happiness,
their people.
Someone is so happy
they could jump with joy,
while someone else is so upset
they could cry a river.
It's fascinating,
Be nice to people.
By Tooba Samad
Friendship is not made of perfect days,
It lives in laughter, tears and small delays.
It's sitting in silence, yet feeling
understood,
It's knowing someone sees you,
just as you should.
It's sharing snacks, secrets,
dreams at night,
Fighting over nothing then making it right.
It's inside jokes no one else will know,
Memories that stay, even when people go.
Friendship is a priceless gift,
Not bought or sold, not meant to shift.
Its value is greater than mountains
made of gold,
A treasure a heart can gently hold.
It's a bond so unique, so warm and true,
Not complex like others,
not needing a clue.
No rules to follow, no role to play,
Just being yourself, day by day.
It's someone who stands when the
world walks away,
Who believes in you on your weakest days.
Not loud promises but staying till the end,
That, simply, is the beauty of a true friend.
