In the dim light of the setting sun,
in the sum of wholesome lands,
slit hopes of men drain in rivers of blood
and parade in front of minds awake but mute,
to finally load on the shoulders
of women cloaked in quivers.
All poetry hums the sighs of wounds
caused not of spear but of a face of dice.
Sunk in the quicksand of fear,
now they afflict impenetrable dreams,
like sweaty clouds of sentimentality
shooting criminal confessions and obsessions –
of lunatics and saints
of desperate thieves of happiness –
down on earth’s petty sneers.
Through cracks it creaks,
like crying crows it weeps
and sweeps the shyness of shame away
in a desert dry of prey.
It is hope in human way, in vain.
It slid down my coat’s sleeve and
hung by its worn out thread, pulled it and
unravelled the cloth spun and woven around my body.
The sudden sight of electrical white skin breathed no life of times,
it didn’t radiate sense against the sun,
but glistened like salt crystals in the sea.
Words offered me bleach and like a martyr I lay wailing
and with every gasping breath I took in
I swallowed words from the sea in waves of despair and anguish.
I am a body – shrinking as it sighs away another person’s soul.
I let it pull me lower, closer to the ground
and I lay there, weight-lifted and sound
on top of a body of earth – a dry dying red bed.
Violated, exposed, assaulted and abused,
ultimately refused of it.
Take a look at Amnesty International’s 8 ways to solve the refugee crisis.