White, black, green, and red,
Waving a flag.
Let the world know
There is a right to be alive—
The people of Palestine have,
In their own olive land.

November eighth, two thousand twenty-four.
It’s a quarter to midnight.
Fifteen minutes left until November ninth.
I’ve got it, I’ve understood, I’ve obliged.
And that’s all it’s about,

But still, I’m holding on.
Though it doesn’t make sense, I know — so let it go.
Past is past, no matter what.
I’ve got it, I’ve understood, I’ve obliged.
And that’s all it’s about.

But you know what:
Who I am now,
It’s all accumulation of previous, no matter what.
Though it doesn’t make sense, I know — so let it go.
I’ve got it, I’ve understood, I’ve obliged.
And that’s all it’s about, so let me go.

Yes, I was wrong,
and you were right.
I’ve agreed.

I’ve agreed:
I was wrong, like a devil,
and you were right, like a god.

I’ve accepted.
But here’s the irony—
I was created by you.

I stood blindfolded, standing before  
a rotten, dead body, perhaps.  
My gut twisted horribly  
from the stench of the decaying corpse  
of someone I didn’t know—perhaps.

A lieutenant stood a few meters behind me,  
pointing an LMG at my head and said:  
“What do you think?”

“Listen carefully—  
your thoughts are a matter of  
life and death. Now, speak.  

What do you think  
about this rotting dead body?  
What do you think?  
Is it a he, or is it a she?

What do you think?  
Was it a Muslim, a Christian,  
a Buddhist, a Hindu, or a Jew?

What do you think?  
Was it black, brown, white,
Or somewhere in between?  
What do you think?”

Then the lieutenant screamed:  
“Why you ******* silence?  
I’ll give you a count of ten to decide,  
and then you’ll face the consequence.”

He began to count:  
“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,  
four, three, two, one; zero.”

“What is your last wish?” the lieutenant asked.

I replied, “I want to see the rotten dead body.”  
Someone removed my blindfold,  
and I saw it was no one else—  
it was me.

I knocked on the door.
She asked, "Who?"
I did not reply anything.

She opened the door
And saw nothing.

I know the rain, know the poems of clouds.
I can understand the songs of thunder.
Yet the desert belongs regretfully,
though the River Nile exists.
Still, there is deep sorrow in the way of life.  

I’m feeling sorry,
to feel the harsh, dry throat in the desert.  
In spite of the sparkles of blueberry wine,
the thirsty heart feels more thirsty.
In a blank whole mind,
there are shadows of the crimson horizon.

Still, I want to go back—

Though some words of mine,
still stuck in a dusty blue envelope, as like
sunlight is fading in an unknown evening sky.  
And I can’t let anyone know to stay beside.

The things I can see, the things I can't see,
the things I can imagine, the things I can't imagine—
they envelop everything at some point, right?
The origin of everything is nothing; in other words,
nothing is the origin of everything.
Except there was a will, there is a will,
and there will be a will.

Feeling nothing is somewhat appreciable,
but being blind enough, deaf enough,
and numb enough not to feel the will
is extremely unfortunate.
I am that unfortunate one. So, who to blame? Myself!
So, am I playing the blame game or the victim game?
But I can’t ignore it; I feel the vacuum, and it always.