Shaheed, they say?"What we've got here is failure to communicate
Some men you just can't reach
So we get what we had here last week.
Which is the way he wants it.
Well, he gets it.
I don't like it anymore than you men" - Strother Martin.
We must harken the cries of our youths,
In the gutters that they lie.
Bold, unforgiving, sullying our gay demeanor.
Pulling lead from their poor chest and thighs,
Picking at each distant memory like broken glass, reflecting in the sun.
Grubs acne their once smooth shoulders,
In place a dough-like putty of skin and puree of dripping meat.
They nestled and with dirty noses,
Dug snugly into the armpits of their brothers.
They dream. But of course they do!
Dreams of moonbeams on blood red barren fields,
Mortars exploding like wild insects leaping free from their captive transparent preserved fruit bottle,
All across the black-purplish bruised sky,
All across their tired weary mind.
They blow kisses,
and soft indistinct murmurs in the night.
Breathing love letters into the wind,
She will soon hear the news
"If you reveal your secret to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees" - Gibran
The first breath of air always lingers long in the mind until it develops into cobwebs, blown away by the wind or destroyed by the frills of Nana's broom.
Shaheed, they say?
Poetry by Shahdele Isman
Read 705 times
Written on 2008-09-24 at 15:37
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