The Third Coming

The shrill voices of strangulated miniatures have filled the innocent air
Their sweats are oozing
And their fragile carcasses are crumbling apart
What else
Lest of the rupture of their suppressed protruded bellies

They yearned for the disintegration
Not of their uniformity
But the utmost wish of being free men

The ganders have filled their purses
They have pecked to death the newly born males
And they are blind now
Because they are full
And the carcasses are weaker than ever
Impoverished by their hands…
Traitors that no longer see others but themselves

Who are they?
Orient them of their identity
They are nothing themselves but eggs sealed with iron;
And the iron, they are always playing with
And the iron, they value less like a cigarette butt

But tell them
That the irons are their souls;
When they play with them
Their center will disfigure
The falcon would never hear the falconer,
The blood-dimmed tide will be loosened, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence will be drowned

But finally, the feathers will fly
The third coming will have its due
And the wind will flow freely to all the traitors.

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The Mocking Birds

Mr. President, leave the birds to sing

The sweet melodies of the summer;
The trees have bloomed
And the clouds are pregnant
The cows, the cane rats, all expecting:
That their kraals and holes shall soon be full of the solemn cries of their little ones

Leave the birds to sing
And their grief of the haunting winter fade away,
The coming of a new summer is a celebration of the turmoil of their fallen comrades
Whose songs are worth more than their innocent souls
They are gone, but their sturdy, patchy voices will ever ado
For these songs are the remains of their ever innocent ancestors

The mocking birds sing
But not songs of mockery;
They poise the truth and brandish the suppression,
They strangulate the forgery,
And garnish the pain enshrined there within;
For the songs are their only holy verses
So Mr. President leave the birds to sing.

The Solemn Palms of God

Come on, little frail bird

Let me count the lines on your toes
And the fluffy wings that avail your liberty

Come on, little frail bird
Let me a feather,
Let me taste what lie in the heart of being free

For we are still in limbo, lost!
We can’t see or hear, though with eyes and ears.

The real routes, we still don’t know their source
We have, yes two generations
But none is a better story to narrate to our children.

Where are the solemn palms of god?
That crafted your identity:
Tell me their nature
So that we will not mistake them for the sorcerer
For we have them all over
And they claim to be those solemn hands that craved you.
And they inculcate fear into our shabby hearts
That mistake the beauty in truth with the fear of death.

Tell me, who are we to own each other?
Who are we to be the possessors of others souls?
Tell me, who should be listened to: the sorcerer or that which coin him?
In the era of their making, they lie of their capabilities
And roar that they know the composite of our fragile hearts
And that without them, we, our existence will be a story for the future.
But they are there, not through their own hands; rather through our handicapped fingers and blindfolded eyes; we elected them, but never told them to be the type they are today: dirty, arrogant, corrupt, nepotists, parasites.

We still know not our own strengths
Because we are still without the needed virtue
And this weakness, they take advantage of

Little frail bird, tell us where to fetch those solemn hands
For it is only those real hands that can save our cloudy heads
For it is five decades, being drowned in the muddy stream.

Shattered to the Miniature

Dance with me when we fetch the air

And weep with me when our fisted veins stray in the meandering loop, my little dangling heart.

Lies are now the blood of the deans by God
And truth is now the key to death.
This is our mood and we have no treasure to batter it for
Lest our solitude silence we always linger with
And the procrastination of the woes of God we do wash our rancid faces with
We juxtaposed our streets with the hope of change
But all we have are the daily mysterious deaths
Or the treacherous disappearance of our beloved bold faces
And we still stay aloof the pestering truth
And thus swell our hearts with the coaxed poisons of silence.

Oh my little dangling heart
When shall we shy away from the gout of shame?
And strangulate that silky thread tying our souls.
We should eat from the bosom of hell
And be able to sense the manliness in us
Oh my staunch immortal mates.
Can’t we drink from the waters of Tunis?
Or bath in the perfumes of Tahrir
Or wear the boots of Tikrit?

We are right at the tip of the loom
Lest we act swift, our axles will go stiff
Then shall we float in a sea of limbo
Like the bleak shrills of Somalia.

Hope

Like a whirlwind, it came –

The shadowy, cracked voice we never anticipated
And we, as citizens, never speculated between ourselves either.

Our hopes, our dreams, carried away in a film of cold air.
We lost it,
We lost it, our wholeness.

Our flabby beings transposed to fluffy feathers
The souls in us, reduced
And these feeble souls, dwindled in the embracing fogs.

Basking under the calm palms of Taipei, as did by our predecessors,
We preempted to embrace better lights
Instead, the lights themselves preempted us –
And we became dreams in ourselves.

In the living streets, we see not ourselves anymore
Nor feel our solemn breaths pulsating
For these innocent nimble airs have been, in a selfish confusion, sacrificed without our consent,
We, the innocent seedlings became the victims of the in-humanness.

In the juxtaposed streets, we are no more ourselves
For our faces we have lost in the battle we never fought in ourselves –
No pride anymore lingering ahead for us.
All in us, our racked composites, are now even lighter than our mass.

Where is life itself
Do we still linger with it – for our dreams have been kidnapped.

Yes our souls have been caged
Caged, yes, but our humble breathes are our remains, our life bearers and not their inhumane, dark hearts.

Yes we are with our breathes
And the hope it broth, we will ever glue to
And the future, our future, will never bleed…
For time has time
And the time begot the future.

The Path

When can we come to ourselves?

Where we will queue for our needs like civilized creeds
When can we see ourselves?
Where we will voice out to the shrill airs
Our daily frustrations and without a pester of grains into our shabby eyes

When shall we understand ourselves?
Where we will value the cost of innocent lives we coldly seize along the path
And we, we still remain affixed to seeing the oozing blood aligning both of us.

Folks with our senses have derailed in the thin airs
Yes, vanished but not to their will
And the folks without our senses remain mute over their own blindfolded actions.

The path, our path
Is still a route, we can’t fully comprehend
Our path, the path is still an arena we can’t folly
For our path to live a life are always streamlined to a more brutal path

Foroyaa

We have come by

We the sons of peace
To sing the chants
The honorable songs of fleeing
Our bloodless endeavors
Has savored our might
Of winning the peace
And it has to be won
Within a blissful
Encounter: of thoughts,
Not of a fight; of words, not of force.

At home, yes we are at home
And the incredulous time is singing.
Its seconds, shying by
And the solemn sanctuaries by them are unlacing their shoe laces.
We have the times in hand now
And who will lead the way to the best song for freedom? We
The sons have come.
We are with our foroyaa but straining effortless now to gain our homes for and of ourselves.