No ceremony
Or invention
Convention
Ever stagnant
You, foul Country
Are my skin
You are not tunic
Not shalwar
Not the shame
With which I
Stiffle my chest
Not love
Fleeting,
Fumbling, flapping
Forced to sit
And forced to flee
Your tongue burns
As a curse
On my tongue
Your hands
Are *****
With my guilt
Your crime
Was me
Your tears seep
In pillow and they
Weep all night
On my face
There is no grief
In me to spare
You bring with you
Everything hot
You beat
As a breathing
Heart of fire
Your feet
Are defiant
Stained with a Henna
That is red as souls
Your wounds
Are flowers on my
Palms, your laments
****** in my wrists
In beauty, I
Return to you
You, the grotesque
Soil of my sprout
Your sins my scars
Your songs my scars
Your violent dances
Alive as tulips
And the love
That you make
Is borne of silence
Whispered, crime
Your law is grey
Your child looks
At me forever
And it moves
Like winds, it moves
Me, it disgusts
At me, and in there
It examines everything
The streets
In your stare
Are quiet and shut
All the jewels
Are jewels of shame
And I do not
Wear you like a flag
I do not rejoice
When you are green
Release me
Or do not leave
Tyrant, I love you.
You peasant, you fool
Your kisses are petty
Your weight frail
You sob like a railway
And all your people
Are dead.
They were running
To you, their homes
Behind. They
Were all running
For you. You reach
In the quiet for me
But I am bleeding
I have killed the sun
And the dawn is you
Sweet, haggard, lover
Of brisk touch and flame
Your massacre
Is my massacre.
Your foul decay
Is my blood.
18/04/2024