A scene I witness; a tank stands tall and proud,
And stones above me are a dome with a purpose vowed,
Striking as desperation infused in resilience bullets;
Covering the sun, the clouds and the house of puppets.
Accelerating, they are, as they get closer to the enemy,
Sharpened, as rubbed with the winds of true identity;
The stones cold and rigid, that turn warm and alive,
On a glimpse of soldiers wishing, in falsehood, to thrive.
Hands are grips of pouches, arms leaned back behind -
And stones rumble in excitement for a destiny to unwind.
In the skins of a will that centuries could not erase,
to hit the filth, the mud catapult a stone shall raise.
Reality is a mortar, and the unity of stones is a pestle,
Grinding the green oppressors’ hideout; a fragile vessel,
Brewing glory with petrified history in hand and mind -
In our fettered souls, freedom is shown to the free blind.
A triangle of love our life is: a stone, a hand and a sling,
And O, is it a love for anyone to forbid? No, it is to sing;
To be sung aloud; romanticising the ugliness of brutality,
The love that will grow, in the womb of unjust triviality.
If they wish to throw us in hell for our love and this,
We hereby will turn hell into the land of pleasure and bliss;
Fashioning a reality where the fires are patting gently,
And Gods are watching the anomaly from thrones intently.
Stones imbue the sweat of us; forming glazed shields,
And the wounds’ blood absorbed crazes paths in fields,
Where I see a soldier dazzled by the weariness of them,
The weakness of their stem, and the strength of our gem.
Now, I am dying under the dome of swift stones up there,
And in hand, a stone dipped in my blood is left for my heir.