O…… Will You Justice!

This poem was written as a rejoinder to a pliant, govt sponsered judiciary in Pakistan, the deposed chief justice has since been restored to his rightful place as a result of a popular uprising by the people of Pakistan. The main stumbling block was the president of pakistan himself (President Asif Ali Zardari)

Will someone soothe the raw for me?
Will someone chink the flaw for me?
Will someone heed the law for me?
O’ Will you feed my ma for me?
I have no tears to wet my eyes.
Nor have I those imperious ties.
Gone in oodles of Machiavellian lies,
thrown in a dungeon with the flies.
Like everything else I’ve lost myself.
my dicey perch on a dangling shelf.
I have no stash, nor obvious pelf.
Broke my ego, yanked my “self”.
Spooks I knew were staking me,
Couldn’t have, just let it be?
Wouldn’t have cast to scurry away.
loved ones would have had to pay.
They blew my door off its hinge.
Book an note from window flings;
pots and pans that were my Mings.
Didn’t even care for baby slings,
blue little jay that always sings.
Trod my heart, my mama’s things.
Lord deliver us from these binges,
tom’s hungry, the puppy it cringes.
Won’t you justice stand for me?
Won’t you pull the strands for me?
Won’t you free my hands for me?
O’ won’t you get my land for me?
had these couple o rooms to me.
now my bones are hurting; see.
Hadn’t bothered a soul in life,
Always been good-natures wife.
The bushes we’d planted an a tree.
There was too, the bumble bee.
Woe begotten in sobs and moans.
Bleeding heart and rending groans.
The crazy cobbles of my street.
an shady haven, were my retreat.
you know your laws in many ways
trick or treat of endless stays
Chained our leaders to the chairs,
freed the hyenas from their lairs.
One you festooned with a noose
on a cooked-up blatant evil ruse
and when we need the iron hand,
to nurture our castles in the sand,
stem the tide of marauding bands,
our own nose is rubbed in sand.
Wont you justice sing for me?
Wont you do the thing for me?
O’lord this land is your land?
Qissakhwani to manora island
Daughters brave em sinful eyes,
freedom stifled in their sighs.
Drag their heavy bags to school
often to face an ogling drool
Back at home in soggy chores,
act the part ordained by lores.
Pour on books an do their work,
Naive to the Wry an brazen smirk.
Grind an burn the mid night oil,
Hoping to fetch for their toil.
Innocent they to links an boon,
or the might of a silver spoon.
As they dot the road side stops
Fodder like the standing crops
Limos churn the dust behind
home by dusk if the day is kind
Gleaming cars are dark inside
Within this flaunt, wrongs reside
Hidden ones who “make their MARKS”
on tender hearts that study in parks.
Will you me’ lord plant a tree?
Will you end the farce for me?
Will you justice set me free?
O, will you justice let me be?

(Islamabad)
(April 7,2009)