The clock is ticking

ticking… ticking… tick—

My brain is floating
As it almost sinks
That piano sounds lovely
And the clock again blinks
And my brain

In a cacophony
Of beautiful sounds
And a daunting harmony
Dancing
Whirling
Ticking

One rose; another.

Just wait for the rain, no thorn

touching the other.

You scan me
With your Western eye
Standing tall, clinging
To your elitist lie.

With your righteous mission,
You desire is to teach me,
Yearning for my submission,
Refusing to free me.

The lies you tell yourself
Do not deceive me;
You claim to make me more,
While forcing less of me.

More?
More ‘educated’
More ‘cultured’
More ‘literate’
More Western.

More you, less me.

The volume of my voice
Is not primitive, nor savage
It is my culture, my heritage,
Which you have ravaged.  

My culture, my language,
My education, my literature,
Are slowly eradicated
By the standards of worth
You have dictated.

My language is not irrelevant,
Nor menacing.
It is my heritage, my legacy,
Tainted by your supremacy;
It is not powerful as Athena,
Rather it burns with the fiery
Passion of Nuha.

I will not be silenced,
I will not lightly tread,
For those who fake alliance,
Whilst wishing me dead.

A sunflower
Growing in a garden of roses
Searching for its home
Always wandering,
Alone.

A sunflower,
With auras of red,
White,
And yellow.
Hues entwined
In a weave so painfully mellow.

In a garden of roses,
Moving, growing, searching
A sunflower remains
Alone.