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8/29/2009 Ramzy Presaad van She
Once there was a little girl, she lived by her faith, in God above Life was so simple then, little foods, old clothes, worn-shoes all she got She live in poverty but brimming with love A father plowing the field from sunrise to sunset A loving mother that takes cares of her Two brothers and two sisters To her the, the world is full… But then the nightmare advanced her way Armed men came; there were gunshots, and her paradise ablazed Shelling of bullets drawing near, she went rigid and still Two young men pulled his father and two brothers Shot her mother and sisters… In the calmness of the night, lit with sparks from burning shanties half-moon shadows She heard sobs, screams and cries of men, women, children and babies She ran, she stumbled, corpses soaked with blood A pain, pains, pains until she can feel no more… At a quick flash she was isolated, in a world with her faith, in God above With her faith to God she knelt down She can see the golden rays in the sky, a signal of a new day It was worship day She does not care; there are no more old clothes, no worn shoes No more errands and laughter Ashes they are all ashes, along with her faith she thought She was alone Blankly staring the dead bodies, she asked God "Are you real, why you allowed this to happen" No answer, the humming of the crickets getting louder The sounds of the wind seem teasing and torturing her… She thought of her prayer, the worships, and devotions the litanies she used to pray, the rituals her faith, the agonies and her wounds She numbed, She said: "I am dead" "Divine Master reincarnates my soul to the bird" Let me fly away, so far away… Darkness, darkness, darkness… It was not so long ago And the world is too busy to notice The girl is now a full-grown woman But, there was something about her… the scars Through time it refuses to heal She was a victim, she survived, but the ghosts constantly hunt her
~ Ramzy ‘Dereck’ Presaad van She
Writing serves as my therapy to escape the psychosis and melancholia of living. I don’t have particular subject, I deal with anything that I can see, feel, touch, observe or even imagine. I was told that writers are born and not created. Maybe. What matters most is not whether you write well or not, but you, should write bravely at all times.