my song is a wave of waters
forth is the tone driving
I know, yes, I know
forth is the rhythm paddling
my song is tide of sages
ferrying to conflux of ages.
(for IDP Camp in Pleateau, 2017)
In this song I remember your tears
your cries that lies unburied in your heart.
Once upon our heart, we hut joy
once upon our land we bath in peace and sit
to watch the day writing farewell to the sun
once upon our cities the tree whistle to the song of the rain.
Now that the breath and length of our camp
is a hook of the vultures
having dinner on the dead and the dying,
when lateral lines of blood tint the wall.
In this note, I remember mothers robbed
with scars of tears with faces sprawled with dirge,
left with memories of motherhood,
photographs of christen
and bruise of bullets on their walls.
In this note I remember husbands
who watch their spam buries in the open earth;
I spray clay of dirge on eyes
of those wrapped in the attrition of the night.
(ode to death)
Our cloth is rived in the voices of bullet,
the crocodile in the dry river
crying for lightning and blank cloud,
nobody is crying for anyone
but everyone is weeping for himself.
Blood as libation
women wailing as sweet flame
children on the death roll
daybreaks with deathblow
newspapers sprawl with ikulic news
like shed leaves in the dry season.
Our memory is in the sea of sorrow
of homeless orphans
of million widows whose dusk is a forgotten solace;
of bullets and bombs that struck homes, and
left it in empty cruse of joy.