Her face Like December leaves, Pale, void. Tears freeze in her eyelids. She stands enclosed by The ruin – human made. Her looks have lost in depth. But it beyond her grasp. Why she can’t unwillingly smile. Why she has no mood to play With the dusty, ruined doll of hers. Why, why, why …… Her city turns to dust. Her home turns to tent. Her tiny heart No more feels pain. No more tastes pain. Her tiny heart Hangs between life and death. All she does, all she can Is to be overcome by the depth, By the ruin that reflects Inside… Stealing her childhood, her life And grants her a living death.
So-called Poetry of Biba 