How did you kill your poets

How did you kill your poets?
The ones who sang of
desert roses and fountain of miracle?
How did you poison their dreams?
The vales that whispered
Tales of love, melancholy
and sacrifices
How did you taint their verses
with blood
Replacing the ink that coloured the sky
with stars in the night
and clouds during the day...

Pens and diaries
Replaced by guns and diktats

There was a door
With a dream catcher
Now, it has dents.

Did you use bullets or bombs?
Or just sealed it tight
So tight, that neither the zephyr
Nor the sunlight could walk in.
The poems trapped inside
Knocked hard
Shouted
Banged on the sealed entrance...
It must have been the impact that left the dents...

But I know, the last dying flower told me,
The screams had silenced
Before the wood cracked
Out of agony.

In collective grief,
The sun, the forest, and the gardens
Withered.

Now, a dry heatwave sweeps
The streets where unwritten words
Wander like a madman.
The poet's body, still walks,
A zombie, adapted to routine.
A day, that is sans melody,
Nights, that sleep quietly,
And mornings, that pray,
But only through their lips.
The hearts,
And the eyes,
Are empty.

How did you kill those poets?
Their verses seek justice
They counter, and question
Your chants and diktats
But there are no listeners...
The city is dead.

~Saba