I hear stories of an ancient land so pure.
I see photographs of bluer than blue skies
over a lake of molten gold.

I drink kahwa flavoured with almond and saffron
and add honey, sweetened by bees from the valley,
my hips swaying in a crewel work on wool skirt.

I hear songs of freedom, I know people who fled.
The muezzin prays for peace over bloodstains and tears
while children still play under walnut trees.

Clouds gather to pray at Shankaracharya Temple
on a mountain dipping its toes into water
while empty shikaras speak of visiting ghosts.

Mothers whose eyes never tire, looking over the sunset
for long lost sons; wives who still lay out their husband’s
slippers on a carpet with frayed edges.

Postmen deliver letters to addresses long abandoned;
a generation of elders, eyes of agate, gnarled fingers, brew tea
surrounded by memories of children killed, daughters *****.

I write for all people who live in war.
I write for the age of innocence to return.
I write for soft rain to wash away sin.

I write for the return to reason.
I write for peace to flutter gently through groves
of apricot, almond, apple and walnut.

Feel the pain. Hear the refrain. Smell the emptiness.
This is now. This is now. This is not in the pages
of a fading history text. This is now. This is now.

Aligned with all plain and normal
And love is a way of regression
'Tis your season to be frugal
For once we'll teach youth a lesson.

I've got weeds
They slipped through!

My thick skin.
****.

I feel seeds
And they're  growing
Sprouting
Words of hate
Growing
In my chest

Beating, screaming
Ba da ba da ba da

I've gotta tend to
This garden of mine

Your opression
Will not
Leave hate
In my Sanctuary

"We are dealing with oppressors who, while standing on our necks, will label us the aggressors if we spit blood upon their boots."

There she sat, in the faint yellow light,
in nothing but white lingerie,
a box of cigarettes to keep her company.

There she sits, soaked in smoke, viscous grey,
something to please her schizophrenic perception,
something to unburden her, remind her of her God-given free will,
a term rather easily scribbled on papers.

It was not materialism she sought,
she aspired for something far greater,
she wanted a sense of freedom,
to know what it’s like to be unchained;
even if it lasted mere ticks.

Deep breath, she no longer sits on her bed,
for the first time in her life, she was… free.
Two passers-by glimpsed overhead,
sighingly mumbled, “don’ya ever wish to flee?”