Where is Zambia?

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Christmas is looming around the next corner;
cards and parcels sent and received.

At the post office (I wipe off my shoes)
I send off a present to friends in the heat –

they’re home in Zambia, all to the South.
The girl at the counter inspects the address.

She keys in with verve, then halts in her moves:
“Zambia, where is it?”; she’s muddled in guess.

“African South”, I tell her surprised
(Generation smartphone, no one @ home?)

“South Africa, oh!” she exclaims in relief.
I frown and correct her, slightly impatient:

“Southern”, I stress and cannot believe.
She appears to be trapped, asked a trick question.

I feel her brain ticking, about to implode.
I give her the look (howcanyounotknow?).

Her fingers are frozen, stand-by in mode.
I wait for a minute or two or another.

Then, all of a sudden it strikes my awareness:
She won’t find “Zambia” in this one computer

In the language of Goethe, it spells with an ‘S’.
“Try then with ‘S’”(Generation X advices today).

She types again – her face now lights up.
My parcel is stamped and sent on its way.

I love my muslimsisterbrothers

© A. Tallil

mural © A. Tallil

I do not care what is your creed
I do not care what you believe
I’ve always thought that we can be
respect in spite of disagree

I love my muslimsisterbrothers
I loverespectdefend them & others
I can no longer be obliged
to be deceived and ill-advised

I know we’ve made mistakes so many
I know that hate’s a gut response
I’ve always thought that we can find
a way in spite of history’s twined

I know it may have been naïve
I know that no one really listens
I’ve always thought that we can fight
off hate in spite of breach of right

I love my muslimsisterbrothers
I loverespectdefend them & others
I can no longer be obliged
to be deceived and ill-advised

I see that no one asks those questions
I see that no one cares to look
I’ve always hoped that we can lay
our sword in spite of power’s play

I blame our leaders, bankers, bigots,
I blame the greedy, rich and full
I may be small to start a racket
but may in spite we all attack it?

I love my muslimsisterbrothers
I love my christiansisterbrothers
I love my hindusisterbrothers
I love my jewishsisterbrothers
I love my buddhistsisterbrothers
I love my atheistsisterbrothers

I loverespectdefend them & others

The new settler’s tale

because I’ve been blogging about the current crisis for a long time, I hereby re-blog all the relevant poems that I wrote since June 2013

evavanbeek

© sculpture A. Tallil © sculpture A. Tallil

Chapter 1
(The promise)

That hot day in June, a moist hand I shook,
desperate and harried, I bought myself free,
I squeezed the heartblood out of my kin,
I did cry for them but dried my own tears.

The road had called and cozened in me,
that slithering snake licking the globe,
its head was to lie in a shiny new land.

I grasped the tail and I pulled along
No thirst, no hunger, no pain, and no cold
would interrupt my arduous journey,
meant to be better, meant to be gold.

Chapter 2
(The matter)

The snake has bitten and not let go
I am in the grasp of winter’s land.
What they have told me is buried in snow.

The people speak in foreign ways,
behave with contempt or mistrust at least.
I look at the sales girl staring at me
no doubt…

View original post 139 more words

Googling for justice

because I’ve been blogging about the current crisis for a long time, I hereby re-blog all the relevant poems that I wrote since June 2013

evavanbeek

IMG_0917(dedicated to the people dying in search for a better life,
horribly exploited and let down by Europe, by us)

When the sky pours from the heavens
when the slope slides from the hills
When the sea starts drinking people

it’s time for us to not accept:
Anyone drowning, anyone fret.

When the land wilts from despair
when the trawlers snatch from boats
when our food just helps them starve

it’s time for us to not be hush:
Anyone crawling, anyone crush.

When the child drowns from its hope
When the man fights waves of gloom
When the woman dies in waters

it’s time for us to no longer budge:
anyone ceding, anyone drudge.

(We dried them out, we took their lives
and yet we simply google on
as if the world has not just cracked).

View original post

A swansong for rich countries

because I’ve been blogging about the current crisis for a long time, I hereby re-blog all the relevant poems that I wrote since June 2013.

evavanbeek

view_dungu_hosp_low

You can build a great wall
and mount all the guards
to put up defence
in each of the seasons

however barbwired your fortress may be
there’s always a split for others to see

you can seal off frontiers
and block all the roads
to tighten control
at every stage

however far your borders may reach
there’s always a gate for strangers to breach

You can hedge off your acres
and set all the traps
to catch what is quaint
before it’s inside

whatever land your fence may enclose
there’s always a chunk for clans to engross

You can raise a high castle
and load all your guns
to aim at the souls
which just needed help

however tight your bolts come to lock
there’s always a door for migrants to knock

View original post

Redefining positions

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how could i not be myself?
how could i not listen to what earth was telling me?

nature pulled away and i disappeared in appearances
i lost my laugh between the third and fifth floor of success
age raced, stars kept falling;
their stories extinguished
never to
be retold.

can’t prevent nature from fading
can’t prevent the laugh from wasting
can’t prevent the stars from smothering
can’t prevent the earth from swallowing
those
stories.

it is just that…
luck is not to be found in people or prosperity
it is something to be saved little by little
in my attitude
towards
the world.

Uncertainty of a life ahead

(because every now and then I ask myself: is it still there,
the willingness to choose the less obvious path?
)

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When fog has slid off the up-rolling hills,
Will I take the footprints captured in snow
or choose to climb the rough path of thrills?

When angst has left the up-growing child,
Will I tend the bench and watch people flow
or climb the boat of destiny’s wild?

See, the tree standing age-old
has felt the world of ages unfold
The woodpecker’s knock pounding the trunk
I listen in vain for secrets to thunk.

When cold has fled to un-distant shore,
Will I swim the creek my custom in tow
or ride the ocean to se
arch and explore?

When fear has left the un-certain youth,
will I till a land quite painless to sow
or plod through the mud to find out the truth?

See, the cliff mounting the guard
has watched the sea for years without part.
The sea gull’s complaint screeching the rock
I listen in vain for stories to squawk.

But! Hear, the water lying so quiet
underneath the snow waiting to riot.
The primrose’s push breaking the earth
will bring me the tales of thousands of births.

The new settler’s tale

© sculpture A. Tallil

© sculpture A. Tallil

Chapter 1
(The promise)

That hot day in June, a moist hand I shook,
desperate and harried, I bought myself free,
I squeezed the heartblood out of my kin,
I did cry for them but dried my own tears.

The road had called and cozened in me,
that slithering snake licking the globe,
its head was to lie in a shiny new land.

I grasped the tail and I pulled along
No thirst, no hunger, no pain, and no cold
would interrupt my arduous journey,
meant to be better, meant to be gold.

Chapter 2
(The matter)

The snake has bitten and not let go
I am in the grasp of winter’s land.
What they have told me is buried in snow.

The people speak in foreign ways,
behave with contempt or mistrust at least.
I look at the sales girl staring at me
no doubt she thinks, I’m up to some harm.
They are not sufficient, the coins in your hand
she tries to imply with a glare and a snarl.

I stumble some words out of my mouth,
my tongue in a freeze, my head in a cold.

Chapter 3
(The anguish)

I’m an unwanted gift, a curse and a strain
I came with the frost on the half-hearted sea
I rolled on to spring, and summer bygone,
who knows, no season will ever release.

I am that you hate, the one who is fold
inside the plaits of your land and your homes;
no igneous iron will ever suffice
for me to be thawed from sheets of your ice.
I am a lost cause, my dreams of grandeur
icebound in flowers growing on panes;

…and the serpent has swallowed another one in.

Googling for justice

IMG_0917(dedicated to the people dying in search for a better life,
horribly exploited and let down by Europe, by us)

When the sky pours from the heavens
when the slope slides from the hills
When the sea starts drinking people

it’s time for us to not accept:
Anyone drowning, anyone fret.

When the land wilts from despair
when the trawlers snatch from boats
when our food just helps them starve

it’s time for us to not be hush:
Anyone crawling, anyone crush.

When the child drowns from its hope
When the man fights waves of gloom
When the woman dies in waters

it’s time for us to no longer budge:
anyone ceding, anyone drudge.

(We dried them out, we took their lives
and yet we simply google on
as if the world has not just cracked).

The army of diligent footmen

photo and sculpture © A. Tallil
photo and sculpture © A. Tallil

Ahead of the hours adjusting their colours,
night fleeing, day ceasing; I do leave for work.

Silent and guilty, I slip through the doors,
hardly cause noises, for their sleep is pure.

Joining an army of diligent footmen
deploying to tidy, when they are at rest.
They never will see us, they never will wake.
We’re not to be noticed, we’re not to disturb…

We clean up their hotels, their office, and toilets.
We ready their meal, their tins, and their sidewalks
while building their streets, their houses, and bridges,
and tossing their dreck, their muck, and plethora.

We labour in dust, in cold, and in cellars;
and hardly cross paths with them who are proper.

Modest and servile, we sidle through halls,
avoid making contact, for their turf is closed.

We stand for the toughness, the dirt, and the dark
of life in the subsoil, from which they seem far.
They wish not to hear or ever to see us.
We’re just to accomplish, we’re just to perform…

And they are the costumes, the hairstyle, and smartphones;
using the shoe shine, the perfume, and lipstick.
They travel in first class, on jets or in cars,
consuming the world as if it was theirs.

We are the unseen, cheap clothes and hairdo,
and hardly survive on the money we make.

Aching and tired, we keep up the work,
the choices are few, or else we are wretched.

I carry some dreams of beaches and leisure,
keep hoping for nothing that they’d comprehend
that we are the carpet that cushions their footsteps
we’re not just to shoulder, we’re not just to serve…

But this is a day-dream, a fancy of night flights
to bear an existence in hours of sweat.
Unless we abandon to boldly remind them;
they never will see, and will not wake up.

Redemption, if you will

IMG_0322

in the shade of splendid words
we hide our fears
& shed our guilt
defend a house of cards
we will

in the nook of sparkling phrase
we burn our lies
& blow our myth
obscure dishonest ways
we wish

in the hint of polished speech
we store our pain
& stash our doubt
prevent an open breach
we want

but in the eye of sparkling tinge
you find my hue
& touch my sooth
redeem eternal clinch
you shall

A somber winter’s tale

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Morrow calls the late sun to rise
to carry away the raw nights of ice

I failed the riches in bleakest of life
and buried the poorness in crustiest glaze

no pledge in faith
no want in love

and all the speeches remain the same

No musings
No pennies
No linings
No hope

some would have been
some would have lost
it’s sorrow to day
and hardship to night

(In the forge of the earth,
a  primrose may know)

I am not

(Do not make me a hypocrite by blessing talks of freedom of expression; I know too well who may speak and who may not)

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I am the girl and all of her victims
blasted to bits in Nigeria town

I am the exiled and all of their infants
freezing to death in Syrian camps

I am the ones and dozens of people
killed by a bomb in Yemeni state

I am the child (not counting the others)
killed by Malaria that every minute

I am the ones and millions of children
dying of famine and hunger each year

I am the thousands of African people
dying of Aids each day after day

I am all of those and all of the others
killed by ideas and greed on this day

But I am not and never will be
who you want or coerce me to be

Finding Prudence

IMG_0719

Where have you been
the son of the wisdom
The home was abandoned in mighty ol’storms

Where have you been
the daughter of patience
The garden ran riot in ample ol’rains

The house now stands numb
with walls once adorned of infinite fables

The rooms now hold ice
with desks once so crowded of luminous thoughts

Where have you been
the heiress of insight
the time has grown crucial to settle back in.

The biting truth

IMG_0622 - Version 2

What is up – is it down?
What is left – is it right?
What is red – is it blue?
What is dusk – is it dawn?
What is I – is it we?

The frozen peak knows none of flats
The howling wolf knows none of barks

Glue your facts – which what is warming
Crumble your truth – which what is biting

The end of the penny dreadful

(because sometimes I have more bills than income)

Sculptures © A. Tallil

Sculptures © A. Tallil

Go to the king and pay your tithe
it’s wise it’s wise it’s wise it’s wise

no way around the lordship’s tills
it mills it mills it mills it mills

your groat is void and nothing but grime
without you gasping, it wanders in time
and if you do not fib or bribe
it joins the rich, but never your tribe


Go to the bank and pay your debts
it frets it frets it frets it frets

no way around those taxes’ bills
it kills it kills it kills it kills

your pennies are stocked in void and blank
without you puffing, they lose their rank
and if you do not fib or bribe
they go the rich, but never your tribe

The murder of crows

IMG_0623 - Version 3

Don’t croak about a death tonight
there’s cake to bake
and stoves to sweep

Don’t swing about the scythe tonight
there’s men to keep
and beds to make

Novembermist crawls up my head
train of thoughts laden with lead

Don’t sit about a grave tonight
there’s wood to shake
and roads to beat

Don’t pick about a bone tonight
there’s myths to reap
and gloom to break

Decemberfright stalks up my spine
murder of crows blowing a chime

Clover of Four

(for my mother who would have turned 85 today)

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Betwixt the primal automn air
I stroll along on worn out fields; I look for her in glowing leaves
that tumble to content despair

I never knew how she could spy
a fourleaved clover in the grass; but when she left to join the clouds
her mistery fell on bristly rye

I try to pierce the muddled mist
and call upon creation to keep the promise that she’d made
to find me in a secret tryst

It seems a search to no avail
I hunt, inspect and comb the green; perhaps there is no greater scheme
she left to leave nor sign or trail

But there’s a pause, a halt in time
a gust of everafter scent; and there before my watery eyes
clovers of four and five sublime.

Notes between the colours

Part 1:

We call for Purple
to turn into night
and find that Green is
common and trite
When Red performs
in fire and motion
then Orange becomes
a reddish devotion
If Blue is reserved
for sky and the water
then yellow is sun
on the hair of your daughter

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Part 2

Beware though then…

…when Yellow passes you may not see
the thousand of specks that melt into glee

…when Blue is in motion you may not grasp
the billion of moons that aged in its path

…when Oranges it shivers you may not feel
the rivers and creeks that licked on the keel

…when Red is pounding you may not hear
those words and hearts that batter a weir

…when Green dissolves you may not gather
the ancient ground splitting the dagger

And least of all…

… do we believe that tedious Purple
is more than a colour filling a circle.

The Bride of Palestine

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There once was a bride so mellow and kind
she lived with her kin in a house of plenty
admired by many and begrudged by them
who themselves had searched for a beautiful wife

(The bride was promised to one other man)

But they started scheming and plotting away
and invaded her house with the help of others
they claimed the poor bride and all of the rooms
and locked her kin in a chamber afar

(The bride was stunned and deplored her own fait)

Deprived from access in their own four walls
Her kin started rearing, reclaiming their house
instead were fenced in and bullied and tortured
which made them bristle with rising anger

(The bride was heartsore and wilted away)

And then it exploded and plans went awry
mothers were killed and children were slaughtered
bombs were thrown and rockets exchanged
the house started rotting and falling apart

(The bride had become an old withered hag)

Up until this day the fury is lasting
unleashing the beasts of creed and dishonor;
empty the land that once was a hope
No peace in sight in the house of the lord.

(Will anyone stop to rescue the bride?)

A spark in the Rainbow

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Had longed to hear the colour’s song
had searched for substance in the light
had called the stars for comfort’s sight

but none so far had given way
so my heart’s howls would all allay.

Was tensed with worries of the bolt
was lost for darkness in my steps
was pained for gloom in all respects

but none so far had reached its aim
that this and all was not in vain.

Had borne the thoughts like cracks of dusk
had carried stones in head and soul
had dragged these bones as piles of coal

but none so far had come to ease
the fear of that futility’s breeze.

But when I turned my glance outside
and there, it was – undoubtedly bright

A rainbow touchdown in my yard.

(…no answers yet, if just a spark)

Those mothers long forgotten

sculpture A. Tallil

sculpture A. Tallil

A child has gone just now this instant
because of ailment, bombs or hunger
another one – oh dear, this minute
and then this one and that one too.

A mother cries just right this moment
because of illness, war or famine
another one – oh dear, this minute
and then she ails and that one too.

Will it stop, just right this second?
That we afflict or press or torture
another one – oh dear, this minute
and then they die and that one too.

Not much to say for special days
No words or rose will ever do
for not this one – oh dear, no minute
We killed that heart – and this one too.

The eternal transcience

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Little petal’s white on the grass
a stain in time.
They have been thrown – simply to pass

Noble peacock’s call in the grove
a plea in haste.
They have been reared – only to rove

Tender lamb’s black on the green
a flash in life.
They have been bred – plainly to wean

Gentle mother’s tears on the face
a cry in gloom.
They have been sent – purely to brace

Greater grief will lapse in season
but leave a trace.
They have been cast  – surely with reason

The ballet of a lonely poet

Sculpture A. Tallil

Sculpture A. Tallil

Words that tumbled through head & meadows
were randomly danced in sound & in echoes
there wasn’t a score or a note to be followed
then why does it feel but clumsy & hollowed?

One of the days, I swore, it would change
then days became but years in a range
my shoulders slumped with burden of times
my age was counted in strokes & in dimes

Could I have betrayed the truth and the real?
Could I have reshaped the spin of the wheel?
I wonder most & on every corner
why others succeed when I am a mourner.

I fret, bewail, do stretch & bemoan
senseless it seems; the fate’s to be worn.

Absurdity of an ordinary existence

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I

The rains of eyes have left a stream;
the thoughts of morn upset the mist

II

I’ve lost my footsteps in the mud;
have searched the skies and found but void;
believes and truths have overturned

III

The bark of dog proclaims new light;
a virgin breeze affects the ridge;
a noble drop commends the seed;
small hopes pervade the rays of dawn

IV

I choke until I breathe again

 

Snow White and the hideous lie

You never think about your skin
when you are milk and light fair cream
you only contemplate your tone
when you are brown in colour scheme

But we the Whites should reconsider
we have oppressed without no shame
have conquered much without regret
and did wield power to inflame

White

Well, truth be said now; pray do tell
is all that pink and sullen pale,
the faded and the humdrum pasty
not a far cry off from peachy tasty?

Looking at my fair reflection
there’s a thousand faces pending
Snow White’s end of fairy tales
puts a term to all pretending

The time has come to reassess
the false account of race on earth
and we should simply abrogate
to judge the children’s lot by birth

 

…and everyone should have paid attention

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The Angels have overslept
and left you lying
your face trailing off
your hands grasping in vain

It is (oh!) so unjust
to be left behind
it is (oh!) so inhuman
to be still alive

the Gods were occupied
and left you dying
your spirit fading low
your body parting away

It is (oh!) so unjust
to be left behind
it is (oh!) so inhuman
to be still alive

The Spirits have languished
and left me crying
my mind fighting out
my heart struggling along

…and everyone should have paid attention
when time could have been reversed
too late now:
Only flowers can follow your flight home

How to kill a childhood’s ardour

 

Caricature © A. Tallil

Caricature © A. Tallil

 

Never move in haste or rapture!
Never dance in jumps or laughter!
Never play in bang or anthem!
Never sing in cheer or tantrum!

You are a hindrance to accounting
to all activity and amounting.
Sit still, my child, you have to learn
that life is here to duck and earn.

Never paint in verve or colour!
Never sculpt in bliss or fervour!
Never rhyme in glee or Pyrrhic!
Never write in joy or lyric!

Why d’you mourn the loss of pink?
You only have to be in sync.
Don’t even ponder vast elation,
t’was never planned in education.

 

The reticent call of tiny things

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Drops of chant
leaves of mist
hands of light
have kissed our lives

and yet we do not realize

birds of airs
rivers of kind
words of light
have served our path

and yet we do not visualize

wanting and longing
running; unceasing
always and ever lagging behind
until destruction lays its veil
upon what once seemed comfortably great

angels of earth
mountains of peace
eyes of aid
have kept our fate

and yet we do not sympathize

songs of dew
clouds of paint
whispers of dust
have lead our step

and yet we do not emphasize

wishing and hoping
bustling; unyielding
always and ever casting about
until cessation lowers its bars
upon what once seemed crucially key

Not morrow and past
not sorrow; unending
always and ever making us bend
until we lose our sacred core
should ever define the here and us

it is up to us to legitimize

Nostalgia on an automn’s day

IMG_0299Septemberwings
they bring the chill
to pull off summertired leaves
to suck the breath off warmer lakes

I learned the seasons by my heart
they know on how to play their part
as stars wipe out the evening glow
then chased by sun with light in tow

Automngasp
it brings the mists
to stroke off all the wilted vines
to push the birds towards the South

I gathered years in broken jars
locked them far behind soul’s bars
as age removes the trace of youth
followed by the aches of truth

Eveningsilence
it brings the dusk
to cover up the dog day’s heat
to tell the fields they now must shiver

I sailed through time on borrowed boats
forgot to look for beacon’s coasts
as people loot and leave my sorrows
replacing old for new tomorrows

The drums of war and sorrow

angola17The head is filled with pain and flashes
a splinter of a memory
sable dust on open wounds
becomes a human’s tragedy

The house is worn with holes and bruises
a shadow of hilarity
scorched earth on gaping fields
becomes a country’s malady

Who has said we want this war?
Who decides on less and more?
Who can take our lives away?
And who’s the winner anyway?

The sky is shred in tears and claret
a fragment of eternity
billowed cloud on beaten ground
becomes a soldier’s blasphemy

The air is cringed with dread and terror
a notion of its purity
anxious thought in battered minds
becomes a people’s atrophy

Who has said we want this war?
Who decides on less and more?
Who can take our lives away?
And who’s the winner anyway?

The Fantasy of a Realist

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When there is a splendid dream
of plenty and abundance
for all, each, and every team

When there is a solid worth
in peace and candid truth
on land, sea, and all the earth

When there is a real ambition
for freedom of believe
in men, culture, and tradition

When there is an overt duty
of love and true protection
for worlds, nature and its beauty

When there is an obligation
of social rights and justice
in trade, politics and the nation

When there is a pure compliance
with ideas and visions
in crafts, arts and the science

Will you hold on to

the wealth

the wars

the religion

the carnage

the abuse

the consumption

that only fuels a few?

 

Grievance of a dismayed child

Ganges

Mother dear
I know it’s age
that runs away on riverbeds

your checkered swimsuit
on my mind
I was so small and you so tall

 now I have grown into the sky
left you there on shifting sand
pebbles roll beneath your feet
and waters lick around your calves

Why does the tide not stay away?
Why do you have to drift along?
I cannot swim to rescue you
out of a lifetime’s ocean

Each creek does find the sea it needs
I learned this from the tales you’ve told
and yet how could I not foresee
that drops and people flow the same?

I’m just allowed to let you float
and send some lonely tears with you
One day my creek will follow yours
and find the ocean that you know

The house that crumbled

IMG_0096 (1)
There once was a house
(and so I was told)
a roof it had of shining gold
residents lived in ignorant bliss
Mind you, all were impeccably swiss
and never thought of reasons to grouse

And in this ol’ home
(I don’t mean to garble)
walls they were of polished marble
people lived off milk and honey
And oh! They loved immaculate money

But underneath the persian carpet
another story did unfold
(to tell all this it is quiet bold)

There was a dark cave
(I swear to my blood)
and walls it had of simple mud
residents worked in sweat and tears
Mind you, all were of poverty’s heirs
and slogged to make the upstairs save

And in this bleak whole
(to the facts do I hold)
rooms they had that were so cold
people lived off crumbs and water
And oh, they felt like led to the slaughter

And then one day they pushed the door
and ran upstairs to break their fate
(for honest reasons I this state)

There was a big fight
(to this I don’t frown)
and all the gold came tumbling down
the marble crushed, the carpets torn
the upstairs fled in freight and scorn
and all the house collapsed outright

If only we rich had cared to see
the people who worked for you and me
the house would still stand (with lesser gold)
but oh, this story wouldn’t have to be told.

Hymn of the elusive magic

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It is the hope for a window agleam in an open house
when tundra nights stretch beyond the morrows

It is the hope for a roof ahead in a faithful land
when libellous streets curl beyond the frontiers

 

It is the hope for a raft afloat in a placid ocean
when hungry waves crash beyond the shores

It is the hope for a cloud adrift in a lucent sky
when furious storms lash beyond the heavens

 

It is the hope for a seed alive in a friendly soil
when barren sands rush beyond the gardens

It is the hope for a song aloud in a mellow hall
when fatal quiet reaches beyond the gates.

The journal of a blistered country

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The morning gust
dispersing the dust
the sweeping sound
of brooms on ground
the veil of fire
exhausting the pyre

the mumbling of the early voices
rising
to absorbing sky
the promise of the heat and hunger
crawling
on disheveled shacks

the midday low
of cattle and glow
the rustling note
of dearth’s abode
a horizon of blaze
melting the haze

the desperate cry of men and children
smothered
by relentless sand
the knowledge of enduring plight
roaming
in a sweltering brain

the evening’s weight
on absence and wait
the merciless hint
of coming day’s stint
the night on the rise
gives strife a disguise

the chilling caw of slaughtered beasts
travelling
through forgotten bush
the rumour of a kingdom come
creeping
in a desolate earth

The courage of a rebel’s mind

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cloudswimming, sunsinging
wallshifting, treelifting

Who says if all is set and done
when just one voice can crack the dawn?

goldbreaking, tearbaking
muddancing, lightlancing

Who sets the rules of whole and grail
when just one glance can tear the veil?

bloomfreezing, airseezing
moonturning, tideburning

Who carries the law of right and wing
when just one thought can down the king?

songmolding, seafolding
skychanting, lifegranting

If no one can tell of truth and prayer
why be afraid to turn and dare?