Intern Writer: Nour Walaa Reda
Let the forsaken folk sing a song
Of a lovely king perching on the throne,
with a blade through his heart,
and a flame on his tongue-
with the ice on his bones,
and a smile on his face.
The world is burning,
while he sips on tea with grace.
His words shatter the weak,
his gaze sharp like a bird’s beak.
He sees blood on his sinful hands,
as gold, silver, oh what lovely hands.
In his eyes he is so
high above the clouds,
while the forsaken are those below
On his shoulder is a dove
that makes him never grow,
that is not but a lie, all the forsaken know.
The lovely king, in the end of time, dies alone-
Singular and lonely as an abandoned child
the lovely kings love for himself was wild,
and now his self is dying, his face is rotting.
Today the forsaken rejoice,
for they flew up above.
And the lovely king?
In the void is he, with no love,
below the ground he lies, feet up above,
the feet of the forsaken and those he claimed to love.
Covered by dirt
forgotten by life today and tonight,
Is the king who loved none but his own sight.
