Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Feb 2019 Timur Shamatov
Gemma
You’ve come to my rescue many a time.

But not in the way you might think.

Yes, you do help me in the typical way.

Pulling me up before I sink.

But it’s all the small things you do for me.

The accidental things, that only I see.

That really mean the most to me.

Kind gestures with no intent or agenda.

It’s just who you are, my defender.

You see, the sweet things that you do and say.

They rescue me every day.
I told someone the other day that I often feel out of place, even out of time. I feel like a book in a society that has no patience to read, much less comprehend, any longer. Some of my pages are fragile and very few get to read those. However, transparency is how I’ve turned my pain into purpose. It’s how I connect with and sometimes help other people through their own struggles. I accepted this feeling of being out of place...I understand it to be partly because of my commitment to peace in a world ravaged by conflict, strife and war. But I’m forevermore committed to being an active presence of peace and to help others find it.
Be at peace!
.

Do I have a tongue,
Can I speak too?
In this strange world,
Am I a human too?

Do I have a heart,
Can I live too?
In this strange land,
Am I alive too?

In the midst of Oblivion,
I search my visions,
I once used to dream,
As a young teenager,
In Sea of Paro s
I try to remember,
The faces of people
I had once lived with
Father, mother, brother
Of all those people
I had once called family.

I came here as girl,
I am shared in the family,
I born plenty children,
I am sold and re-sold
In and around
To any men who
Can afford to buy,
I am kept but
Seldom married,
Each street have
it's own paro,
They all have
But the same story.

After some years
I cease to exist,
For the people
Who bought me
I am an old cattle
Who no longer
give them pleasure,
I am now a burden
A liability soon
To be shedded..

They don't throw
me though,
They leave me alone
In a small room,
I have become a mother
Of a girl or two
I have new family
But no identity
fits me ever,
When I come here
I became a Paro,
When my times up
I die a Paro!!

Paro is short for
Pardesi, a foreigner,
I am the girl
Bought for men
From another land
Into there land,
To born son's
For there motherland.

This is ordeal of
A soul that once lived,
Now it's just a body
With no role,
No fiction this
It's a real story
A reality of some
Distant land !!

That land for you
Is so very strange
Where eight young man
**** a pregnant goat!
And the strangest
thing is they
go away and
Roam scot free..!!

Soon the elders in the village
Will have a big meet,
They will give compensation
To the owner of the goat,
And free from the sin
There precious young boys
The martyred goat
Will also have new name,
And so it will soon
Be christened to
A new species of
"Paro"-
a first of it's kind
A Welcome from
an animal world!!

And so I ask again
Do I really exist?
What form of life
Do I have here?
In this strange land
Are they human too??
Does even a little atleast
A thing called
Humanity exist???

Sparkle in Wisdom.
1/8/2018.
https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2018/mar/07/india-girls-women-trafficked-brides-******-domestic-slavery

Wrote this poem after reading this article.
i am letting go of myself,
hold me close,
at this time,
i need nothing else,
just pull me closer,
let the whistling wind,
carry the sound of you promises,
to my ears,
let them echo in eternity,
tell me all your dreams,
tell me you are here,
i am letting go of myself,
just hold me close
Next page