Twenty years ago, A poem was born when, My fingers felt a morning dew Pregnant with sunlight Sleeping on a grass bed. When, My eyes fucked a sprouting leaf Painted green with hope Dreaming a drizzling tomorrow. When, My lips sucked in drops From cracks creeping over the walls Sodden in the creepy rainy days. But today morning, As my pen made love with a paper, Blood from border walls Soaked it to death. Bullets from warfields Decorated it with holes. Screams of homeless children Torn it apart in the air. And here lies the poem With no one to read it. As human pains and cries Turned out boring news reports, And adorned with "like, share" buttons, A poem mourns over a poem.