Broken Verses

 

 

It has been a while since you do not hear my voice.
A voice fed by hunger. The heart ache of Palestine.
When I speak, you only hear the deep anger of hurricanes
and paraphrased storms.
Some familiar sounds that you flow by
everyday, with the somberness of asphalt.
But you do not hear my voice.

You do not hear when I say
what we need. You do not hear the truth.
Which through the passage of time has assumed
the shape of a pot bellied jar. Round at the middle. Smaller
at the mouth. And we arrive on it unequally
through the passages of life
followed closely by silence at the heels.

I do not speak of Gods and Djinns.
They are distant unknown things.
I do not speak of laughter or happiness.
I only speak of death. Our own native truth.
I want to tell you that I do not dream when I sleep
I only see the lament of oceans,
blood and swords. Guns preying on men.
Graves and pyres. Where all love, of words and poets
Are ripped and torn till they mean nothing.
And every morning I wake up with
the taste of gun powder in my mouth.
A few dreams suffuse into windchimes
around the picket fences of my lashes
and too many have died.