She was a child,

Yazidi was her faith:

what she did wrong

was anyone's game.

She fell in love

with her Muslim boyfriend:

when she fled,

relatives dissapproved of her love.

Oh, Khalil,

Oh, baby girl,

Oh, Khalil,

no one cares, it's your name!

Oh, Khalil,

Oh, baby girl,

what happened to love?

Is it wrong

to sing her song?

Is it that way always,

to fear the unexpected?

Is it that way,

to fear the one's undercover?

Oh, what's the point nowadays.

She was told not to follow,

for cursed she was torched:

relatives spoke of her return,

religion was their faith,

religion was their game.

They struck and stoned

and killed her cold:

relatives, I was told,

for they hit and stoned

the girl they fed and called their own.

Oh, Khalil,

Oh, baby girl,

Oh, Khalil,

Oh, baby girl,

no one cares, it's just your name!

Oh, Khalil,

Oh, baby girl,

no one cares, it's just your faith,

They hit and stoned,

and murdered her cold,

and we're supposed to run

like the children from a gun?

And we're supposed to fear

the masked murderers' ball?

We're supposed to fear

the suicide bombers,

the killers,

the extinguishers.

Oh, not me,

Oh, not me,

Baby, Khalil,

I won't forget your love.

subscribe to site or just to poetry