a saunter is morphing into a scamper for peace in
this poem. this place, where villages are burnt into
weeping ashes, runs after the minute it last breathed
peace in its ribcage.
this poem giraffes from a country where peace is
being replaced by sad museums of places packed with
medals martyrs couldn’t wear.
in this poem, turbulence screams at the margins, greeting
away the ardor of bliss. this place births hues of fading
memories that glint in the night when our demons
entice us with cups of reminiscences.
To hold a name that genuflects to the death of colours is
to wish for a rebirth. here, there’s a blue & there’s red
cascading like sands in mass burial. by this I mean, to
baptize a country is to light a candle—
close your eyes, and pray that silence befalls the discordance
in her body. Is to pray that a child’s grasp remembers
his mother’s palms, is to wish that, may the judge’s tongue
remember how to spell justice, may the judge’s tongue unwear
bags of bitter golds.
then pervade the country with candle lights, and candle wax,
to bid its autolysis goodbye.
