Wretched wrath of hell can’t torture me,
When this malignant tumour snatched my happiness,
It slithered slyly into my soft skin,
In a vicious attempt to force me powerless.
Good God, the pain was without doubt harsh,
Slowly splitting, withering, pinning me down,
My legs gave in, rebelling, failing me,
Yet I still spoke, but now couldn’t stand.
The others chuckled, and cackled,
Like wolves, they waited attentively,
Waiting for my near departure,
Ready to pounce, they sat right near me.
“the sick man of Europe” they labelled me,
Even though death hadn’t arrived,
Though death came looming closer,
I decided to not give in and fight!
My eyes blurred, my body fell down,
My arms succumbed to the tumour,
They accepted the pain with open arms,
Without a second thought about their future.
Little insects nibbled on my body,
Each taking a part of my rotten corpse,
Decay and corrosion ensued upon my remains,
Lost to history, a truly lost cause?
By Official Editor of Forgotten Islam
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