Kharaja wa lam ya’od, Kharajat wa lam ta’od,
Heard so frequently, it ceased to be odd,
He or she went out and never came back,
So many of them, so much we lost track.

Some 17,000 whose whereabouts are unknown,
Those who died, their names got etched in stone,
Those who survived the war, are now rotten to the bone,
And those who disappeared, have no one but their own.

Entire families had their lives in pause mode,
They lost a dear one somewhere along the road,
Maybe as he went out to fetch the groceries,
Or maybe lost in one of those similar stories.

The government proposed to declare them deceased,
But it is not easy, and so much pain cannot be eased,
It is not simply a matter of hastening the inheritance,
It is about things like remembrance and love for instance.

It is about those who are still waiting for loved ones to return,
And everyday incense and candles in front of shrines they burn,
Some people became more devout to their religious relics,
Others simply ceased to believe in God and all his clerics.

Kidnapped as they were passing some barrack,
Kidnapped because some militia launched an attack,
Maybe perhaps exchange hostages they did lack,
Remember: they went out and never came back.

Does anyone remember them while away?
A small memory, while passing one way,
People pray for the dearly departed,
But what about those who are nearly departed?