love is a mother’s kiss
caressing the bloody forehead
of her child-
for every poem i write
a rocket is sent
shall i then stop writing poems?
palestine is a maimed son
a dying woman
a trauma unworthy
of being talked about-
the world is spinning-
i pause and inhale
the almost winter is mixed
with the city’s pain
and i don’t know
how to cope-
i am driving through lanes
looking for lost dreams
and watch people living in homes i wanted to grow gardens in-
it’s not that i don’t have
a garden
but i can’t grow anything there-
it is disallowed.
i once grew a tree and when it reached 7 feet
it was chopped down
i then grew a bougainvillea
and it was pulled down-

something won’t allow anything to grow.
the will of a human being
is like that; each time you pull it down
it gets tired
and then it dies-
people gather around you
and look at you with disapproval-
like an anachronistic being;

shaking their doll like heads, ‘ you should have done better.’

I’m punctuating my poem today:

i need to pause and rest
the world is a crater in my being
a hole in the chest
where missiles have been blowing up
boom
blast
one shockwave after another-
hate brings temples down,
burns churches and makes a masjid look like an accomplice-
who puts ideas in your poetic mind?
who makes your pen reek of blood and not ink?
brecht was right
so was eliot
(even) bahadur shah zafr-
time is striking at hours…  and we have been lied to;
there are no lines to be drawn,
nor lives to be lived
we are here to endure
the passing of our dreams.

and when we sleep
only in our sleep
we can smile at the beauty
of our wretched angst –

…

diya is from lahore. loves old trees, words and surreal nights~