Circle

Circle

A Poem by Abhra

There are times when I wish I could write like Darwish
Say for instance that I have learnt all the words and dismantled them
to form from them a single word-you. I don’t.
Simply because I do not love you like that country of nomad lovers.
I do not feel you with my blood or skin.
I do not feel you with my mother and earth.
I do not feel you at all.

I remember, somewhere in the past, I
loved you with my windows and my small doors.
I slept by the night of my small clay,
so that you could descend from the tiny pores of the night,
to that windowsill of dullness.
And I could thread you in broken words and whispers.
And give you names.
But that was before.
Before I learnt that I have gone from loving to not loving.
Like that travelling sand dune of Africa.
My feet now travel to hatred.
After all, where else could I go if I could not feel love?

That is what happens in the country where I live.
We hate.
Here there are no suns, at least the ones that manufacture warmth.
Our sun is morbid, aloof and reticent.
We do not ask for light. We do not ask for shadows
In our neighborhood, we plant grim trees
that fit with our notion of appropriateness.


In our country we do not carry rivers. We drink from our own blood.
We draw lines with the morbidity of charcoal
and separate the skies in dark nights.
One for each and one for us all.
In our country, we toil to not forget,
words and the silent wheeze of broken hearts.

In our country we inhabit memories,
mostly painful, till our heart is full with hatred.
So much hatred that it gives birth to love.

 

 

 

 

© 2009 Abhra


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Added on November 25, 2009

Author

Abhra
Abhra

Kennesaw, GA



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A Poem by Abhra