Now Reading
Borders in My Backyard
ankara escort

Borders in My Backyard

My mind is a graveyard where voices go to sleep.

How do I tell you I am barren today?
If satisfaction was not bought with a few clicks,
I would have sailed too, like Odyssey and spit on his grave,
named myself the only Queen of Ithaca.

Haven’t I travelled to worlds far beyond?
Haven’t I seen God in person, chained hands,
dragged through obscure muddied city roads
that you will never know on a cozy winter afternoon?

I have sat at the same board as you,
drank from the same bowl of brew that has gone cold,
and with a spoon measured the number of joys
fracturing our days, yet your eyes see a different dawn
and mine see none.

I have sewn myself shut in pages after pages,
and begged for the holy sight,
ran naked on the bank of Ganges,
river drying, river dying.
My thirst has burnt a hole in my tract.

Now, I too shine dead
like a fish scale glaring at the sky.
I lie under your sky, the mass of flesh tangled
like sheets left to dry in the sun
by a callous washerwoman who may never return.

Support Our Journalism

You are reading this because you value quality and serious journalism.

But, serious journalism needs serious support. We need readers like you to support us and pay for making quality and independent journalism more vibrant.

Shame on her neglectful hand
that will not touch me, spread me…
Or ask me;
how I am, what my name is, why am I here?

What is this country to me?

You have passed me, past the streets,
you have buried your puny head
inside my womb a thousand times,
yet you do not stop before me,
or ask me;
how I am, what my name is, why am I here?

What is this country to me?

Your eyes see different dawn,
mine see the pale faces of the children
trapped in borders.
I do not know how to spell or speak.
I do not know how to ask or answer.

How am I?
What my name is?
Why I am here?

See Also

I ask the fire to burn me.
In my burnt, ashy voice, I will speak of tongues
that you have never spoken in,
of borders you have never crossed,
of places you have never been to.
In my burnt, ashy voice,
I will call myself Queen.

Utterly borderless, I will call myself free.


For Azaadi, for refugees, for the displaced diaspora.

To help us strengthen the tradition of quality reading and writing, we need allies like YOU. Subscribe to us.

Advertisement

Advertisement

Mountain Ink is now on Telegram. Subscribe here.

Become Our Ally

To help us strengthen the tradition of quality reading and writing, we need allies like YOU. Subscribe to us.

View Comments (3)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

© 2019-2022 Mountain Ink. All Rights Reserved.

Scroll To Top
bayan çanta