Strange

This season, like an endless dream of an expectant mother
harbours my wounded thoughts,
a labyrinthine string of sounds filters into the night's silence
and makes its way into fragile hearts.

peace, a spilt blood which blurs our visions
a breadth of fresh air, an empty promise from bigots
has disappeared with sounds of bomb blasts
now, we've sold our sleep to the unknown
our mats, a decoration in hopeless homes.

arise and burn your mats
let its smoke waft into the clouds
let us march into the night's chambers,
spirits or humans which steal the night's silence
shall face our wrath.

clutch no clubs,
buy no bullets,
arm your minds and sharpen your voices
tonight, we shall restore calmness
sleep shall locate our eyes once more.