Tag: Sunday

Wildfires, how they rage 
as if pronouncing the unholy trail of human irony and hate. 
Waters of the Mediterranean, 
how they toss and turn,
to render children's lives ashen and subsumed in colourless urns. 

State of the world, 
torched by a disrobed tendril in the snow 
and a single drop of blood above fields meant to be plowed;

Washed asunder by demolished idols and the scarred face of Art, 
a son pleads to the mother 
to be taken to another part. 
Graffiti bombarded walls and measured inches of slam poems, 
these confront the enemies and agents of bad omens. 

State of the world, 
sealed in the infected mouths of bunkers, 
voices of agony down South where Sunday masses are alighted by a handful of flickers. 

Wild is the wind, 
that old messenger of incidences, 
a time to rise above courtesies, obituaries and condolences. 

*

Ceasefires aloft 
Taking a hold on the prized message of sisterhoods, 
capes, veils, raiment, all given to the smog for an imminent selfhood. 

Wild is the wind that carries the current of rivers, 
a poet's jilted heart in the rear end of heated discussions and a civilisation's tremors. 
Blow, blow ye wild wind, 
blowing upon the fate of the nation, 
impaired by speeches of a midnight hour, promises and ancient consolations.