1.4 A Tear on the Corpse of Freedom

I do not write poems
For poems write me.
I want silence so as to live,
But what I casted pronounced me.
And I cast nothing but sadness
Over sadness over sadness.
Do I write that I am alive in my coffin?
Do I write that I am free,
When even the letter is shackled in slavery?
Truly a most enchanting thing has been broadcasted,
Called in the Arab countries ruining
And terrorism
And a stab in the Divine Laws.
But its name is, by God!
But its original name is Freedom.