Anger arises inside of my soul
as a little girl’s standing alone in the cold.
In dirty brown mountains placed far, far away,
Can’t help but remember that girl to this day…
No eyes in her sockets, burnt skin on her face;
she cries and she begs for her life to be saved.
Her ear on the right has been fused to her head;
Her mouth has be carved up by granite and lead.
Her small rounded nose has been crushed to extreme;
The blood on her forehead splashed back from her teeth.
The pain that is swelling consumes in her chest;
the gargles and gurgles, they come to no end.
I can’t help but wonder what else I could do,
the memory’s engraved and it fucks with my mood.
Although she is dead, she still comes to life.
Oh , nothing’s more precious than being alive.
Written By John Matar
- Ruthless Memories (aphilosophicaljourney.wordpress.com)