Monday, 3 July 2017

Like a weed
sure of the sunshine on its little leaves
caught unaware crushed
under the sole of a boot
imprints itself bleeding,
lamenting the last breath that never would count as fragrance,
into dust brought from distances
and earth meets earth
in death
I melt.
And through an open window
in the sultry summer
that brings in no air
the ocean calls out me.
The ocean calls out to me, I melt
and break into water.
Broken bits of myself
crawl down my back
tracing the names scribbled on my spine
lose themselves in the leftover of a rain
clinging on to my curls
in the dark
bursts into contours of the sweet salt other
of moistness of distances, places
people, names
time and moments
to die longing for the ocean.
Soon, sighs
the part of me left back to write.

Thursday, 5 January 2017

The most beautiful sea: hasn't been crossed yet.
We are on boats
Toppled over each other
Holding on and trying
Looking out for a shore
Dying looking
Under the shade of Alan Kurdi, the first
Second, thirds and everyone that follows
The umbrella name
Till we soak the blue red
And leave no sea to cross.

The most beautiful child: hasn't grown up yet.
Curled up in a womb
Trampled by boots righting the wrongs
Blood chromosome home you us i me
Wrong wrongs
The most beautiful died a foetus
Never to grow up.

Our most beautiful days: we haven't seen yet.
Pitch-pellet-black eyes
Burns as we fight for the day
The day the cold of your shadow
Numbs no child of ours
The day you do not want us to see.

And the most beautiful words I wanted to tell you
I haven't said yet.
Cocoons of privileges and insecurities and power
Drown screams
Cull out ink from blood
But, listen
Our words aren't far.

- 8 December 2016