Mirror of Hope

Doors of amity begin to bellow
In the dream of our homeless morrow
With you, there would be no sorrow
In our land full of terror

Like Oliver Twist, in my dreams I furrow
To hanker this optimistic mirror
That bespeaks of society void of horror
Where violence is akin to a faded mirror


i sauntered down our old town. now altered to a cemetery, the garden we used to play. two, three, four….&…houses, were wrecked. and the people i left, were asked to make mansions with the skulls of innocent men.

then, it was a garden full of ripped mangoes. now, a cemetery; a black one with hills. i could remember writing my name on the middle tree that drops juice,  went to taste its horny, but found blood answering its sugary name.

i then met an old man, & he said the hills which i ride, are the graves of my townmen. and the dew which falls at dawn, is no more water, but the tears of chained, raped young women.

God, onto you i hinge, give me back my name. the dialect i used to speak, is now the language of death. for now, even my name is another name of grief.


this is not the end/of the sadland/of the shattered souls/it’s a comma/a painful comma/not a full stop/open your eyes/bend your head/get another empty bowl/there are other tears/left/pitiful tears/of pain/

the sadland/is a poem/from which/in the bowl of my miseries/i picked/listen/it’s a poem/that paralyzes the hearts/that weakens the souls/

the sadland/is a land/where buried men/still cry to be buried/it’s a land/where the sparkling stars/rain fire/a land where a poet/does not have a name/ a land where to rape/is as to kill a pest/that’s my land/a sadland/


to cry
is not a sin

for a home
is a body

we gather
at the balcony

like owls &
we cry

to lose a home
is to become an orphan

a street boy
is what i am now called

my home is a street
where i sleep with dogs

i am jus a herd
herding my home

but they burnt it
not my soul

to burn my home
is to burn my soul

a sheeperd
i am burnt