Her eyes were never dry
Since she was born she would always cry…
No matter what kind of lie I would tell
She would see right through me , a smile she didn't sell…
I don’t blame her when her lips fell…
She knew the world was aware of our pain…
She knew nobody cared about evils reign
She knew nobody cared about every body that laid lifeless on the city streets…
So I understand…
In her still so young heart
Knowledge of the world there was that no man had…
Even though she knew it could get her killed she just couldn't stand
When justice wasn't served
When her mothers killers were free
And we get something no human deserves…
So I ask her please smile…
The pain will last just for a little while…
For the Sandy Hook Newtown
children and their mentors
Rattle staccato riddle tumble
Toppled children scatter rat-tat
Innocent voices all tremble
Rifled trillions sure-fire treble
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2012
Feel the privatization in its might
A bullet in the African soul-
The sectors sold
The branches squared.
Our pride dwindles
When our Africa is slowly auctioned
To forces of stealth
Ruiners of our democracy.
Our masters slowly gather the spilled milk
Stride by stride
Grinning at the auction table
Their eyes glued on the politician’s billboard:
AFRICA FOR SALE.
That was the worthiest step and decision
our pressing to US for its airbase in Manas expelling
from our land. The politic so vexed
so self-destructive and depressive
from various points and consequences.
When all our ancestors
from beginning of times, edem and hell
dreamed unlock our region
for west legions,
even if that were a war troops.
We gratefully received Alexander the Great,
for his strong impetus
joining West and East
and after his death
created own legion
of great conquerors,
from Kudzula Kadfises,
till Atilla the Great, Tamerlan
and last dreamers - great Mogols.
All of them devoured to reach
the West values almost maniacal
through India, Russian, Byzantium, Germany
mainly on horses
but sometimes on bouts of Baltics Vikings.
So mister president of Kyrgyz Republic
be honest and wise and brave
for truly friendship with West air force,
that so kind and friendly
deployed in our land
and so profitable
give us great money for our safety,
instead our paying them.
Why on Earth we trying
to be so polite with Russian
and so harsh and rude with USA?
West in our hearts
ask our grandfathers
till yours favorite Kutuzov?
All of them fighting for freedom
and West values.
I didn understand completely
yours Kremlin patron
for his unnatural hatred
the USA and West as whole
as if Russia don't belong to Europe,
so strangely polite with various enemies
as if he badly want to leave
with Ahmanijad, Bashar Asad,
Kim Chen Yr
and other moderns Orcas and Goblins,
where nothing from common sense and eloquent.
We are urgently ask you, mister Putin,
left this airbase with us.
Kyrgyz people so long
wanted to be with West
even with its military base
better, then with traditional allies
our bastard friends and cultural comrades
right in the centre
so long and hopeless locked Eurasia.
As a yellow Asian man
from the poor country
next to Afghanistan
I am also was very proud
when mister Obama
won electing company in US.
But now when American police
failed deeply in our region,
and the US-airbase in Manas
has expelled from Kyrgyzstan,
i am understood clearly
the popular nowadays proverb
son of slave cannot be a good king
and in his place would been luckier McCain,
sorry all of us, dear Obama,
but our world in your time,
has been needfull deadly
for somebody remained little
Alexander the Great.
Who just come in Central Asia
with peaceful and strong invasion
and expelled the evil and rotten regimes,
that enslaved our people and dozen nations,
instead have been expelled himself
and left us for multiplying destroyers.
But I am hope for West that returning again
as coming from where the truly Christianity
and free and deep interpretation of Holy scriptures,
and hope for Eternal life and peace
where shall not been the great empires
and theirs games, intrigues and bloody sacrifices.
I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze
I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.
Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.
From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.
On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.
A Comrade like Ben
A statesman like Mandela diplomatically
suspended the necessary struggle of opposites,
gummed his fragmented land together with reconciliation….
exploiters to exploited , murderers to martyrs
imperialist to invisibled indigenes
lives in Sandton and councils Bill Clinton
and Naomi Campbell on plush carpets
a sinewy activist, hard as nails, like yourself…
Ben Palmer Louw, always
beautiful in your pregnant concern
that freedom , dignity and justice
is tangible and beautiful as black skin, kinky hair
is real when a continent’s wealth is fairly shared
is manifested when the state collapses in selfless deeds
old man Nelson turned ninety and is now a teddy
to those who feared the terrorist at forty.
He no longer speak for himself but for his party
and the party is a self-serving affair.
Pity your death at thirty-something
when Nelson started talking to his racist oppressors.
For ten years you and your young militant army
punctured holes in the racist ideology,
marched flames and thunder through townships,
died in your thousands,
stopping with blood and bones
bullets casted for centuries by the fascist
in black holes of greed and fear.
“A shame … but subversion is to blame ”
`` the defenders of law and order loudly exclaimed
“Not good for business”…the moneybags conceded
“ if Soweto bleeds , profit –rates receeds . ”
“Give black chiefs and compradors the garrotte
and stick the small change of capital under their nose .
They will throttle the radical noises at the root ”.
Wounded deeply, your rapid-firing baritone voice
still thundered on battle-fields and in halls,
urging us to destroy mental and wage slavery.
I saw you fight for freedom
the whole scorching way,
every hour of that long bloody apartheid day…
but one night
you leaped ,
proud black brother of mine,
right into the sky…
fist raised high as heaven with a two-hour smile
whispering re-assuringly “Don’t ever give up, gents…
the harder they come , the harder they fall.
See… brothers and sisters…revolution is!
In memory and respect to Ben Palmer Louw (1950-1987)a student leader of 1976 soweto insurrection
Marie may be for President,
Now in our hearts she`s resident.
Truly has a heart of gold,
It should be widely told.
Marie `s hard working through and through,
Great champion of the weak, we knew.
Clearly able to connect,
She`s earned our due respect.
Great minister, mother, and wife,
To help us, is her way of life.
Marie stands so straight and tall,
So loved by one and all.
Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked.
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.
Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!
When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.
Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.
AN ELEGY FOR ENGLAND
Posturing politicians pursuing their
pompous persona,oblivious of the
obvious,contemptuous of the common
man,and common sense that therein abides.
Such bella-donnas,a deadly night-shade
in their braying bubble poisoned our
enfranchisement,those hard won rights
we and our forefathers sweated blood,
tears & long years to achieve.
Without a glance or referendum obliterated
on the altar of ego,subsumed to the
domination of the bureaucratic oligarchy
O England,that once fair land,alas
now forever laid bare.
Listen to me recite this structured prose elegy on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro