The Ten Days of Ramzan (12 Days of Christmas)

On the first day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
A fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the second day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the third day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the fourth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the fifth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the sixth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
6 nikkah promises, 5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the seventh day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
7 iftaar items, 6 nikkah promises, 5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie

On the eighth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
8 shukrana nifils, 7 iftaar items, 6 nikkah promises, 5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the ninth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
9 modest outfits, 8 shukrana nifils, 7 iftaar items, 6 nikkah promises, 5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

On the tenth day of Ramzan, my true love gave to me,
Ten Ashra duas, 9 modest outfits, 8 shukrana nifils, 7 iftaar items, 6 nikkah promises, 5 qayamat warnings, 4 sehri coupons, 3 hijab pins, 2 ajwa cartons,
And a fully covered Snapchat selfie.

Child of war

His gun, he wears it on his shoulder; his morals somewhere in the trash. PHOTO: REUTERS

The child of war loses his mind; as bubbles of fire from yonder rain,

His youthful eyes no longer shine; he looks at all with much disdain,

The war shall leave in its remains, a man afloat, a childhood drowned,

A family was smashed and maimed in a sea made of clamorous sounds,

Out of order alphabets, scribbled across his only book,

The walls, although, his best work yet; displaying all lives he took,

His gun, he wears it on his shoulder; his morals somewhere in the trash,

Emotions die as he grows older; his torrid heart now only ash,

Upon the prisoners he has freed his narcissism and his pride,

Evils of heredity and creed, are his only foes and by his side,

Anaesthetised, dead and numb; his torment is not to be told,

His mocking honour’s made him dumb, the scorching desert’s made him cold,

Anarchic birth is celebrated, objectives of hatred revised,

Barbaric instances are stated, with great aplomb are plans devised,

Today, a rebel is unveiled, to do something they’ll all condemn,

He aims to not let peace prevail, through his sadistic stratagem.