That Mourning at Peshawar

Concocted some bonny memories fourteenth birthday o'thine.
Steal Oh holy steal whatever you can.
 Y'were limpidly the linchpin.
 Lest now, no limericks, living.
At all, traduce me.
 To wake up never alas, you woke up day hell. 
Didn't they shoot you down thine eyes? Did they? 
Oh distress! 
Not tousled you. Did they? 
Could I ever list the memories then? 
For they did mourn the madrigal, 
neither magnanimous sleaze now there's!
 Had they not ripped your ears apart?
My nights are not slick now-
 I hear the cornice fall.
 Make me cry more, and,
then let me go jejune.
 Had they not burnt your hands..... 
I can't extol no more.
 I've turned deaf, 
for the bullets through your heart you couldn't count,
have made me precedent for the halcyon Tout le Monde...
I know you fought, for your blood, in which, the poem you wrote, not fortuitous, had drenched.
The desk, the board, evil, and helpless.
I know you've pinned down, not to be a foundling the next time.
And, I'm not forlorn on your 14th birthday the next time.
This poem is about: 
Me
My family
My community
My country
Our world

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