Skip to main content

For my love

I won't be there
when they lose themselves
to the ecstasy of the muse
and burry themselves
in the passions of politics.

I won't congregate with them
under the dark thursday night
as they fail to see the dangers
lurking on the corners
in their stupor of art

I won't join them
as they scratch the nose
of the roaring lions and leopards
with their skill of writing
in their ignorance of danger

I will be here, dear
composing sweet verses and lines
that will sound as mellodies
to fill you with happiness

I will lie on your lap
and wander into distant worlds
before coming back with beautiful
poetry
in the chambers of my heart

I won't join them dear
for my poetry
is of love (Is for you)
and they say:
they don't need it
for theirs is political.

Instead, I'll be with you
and watch my nation
being sold at a low price
while our love blossoms!

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The time you meet a stranger who reminds you of a long gone friend

When you meet a stranger with thin lips, a light complexion and a figure like that of the friend who died in 2004, memories overwhelm you. You look at the stranger, sitting next to you in a public transport, with a bewilderment that forces her to smile – not an innocent smile, of course, but one that warns you politely that your stare is making her uncomfortable. And, in turn you give her back a smile. The same smile you could have given your friend were she alive but then you suddenly go back into a space in time. A space you only keep in memory but will never have it again. When you meet a stranger who reminds of a long gone closest friend, you are reminded of how you had come to learn of her death: she had not suffered a lot. She had been sick for two (or is it three?) days, she had complained of chest pains and when they took her to the hospital, the doctors said it was pneumonia and they had just given her some antibiotics. You remember that it was a Wednesday,...
3 comments
Read more

What would Jesus do?

The sun was just beginning to burn the shores of the Sea of Galilee. Some weeks before, four fishermen had been fished from their trade by the carpenter’s son to be his disciples. They were now with him. Sitting on the shores of the sea they had always regarded as a home. Their past, forgotten; hope erected in the future. Jesus, for that was the name of the son of the carpenter whom the church had denounced, was busy preaching to his congregation. His voice was small, his frame was little – almost frail. The cloth he had used to wrap his body in was dirty such that in within his congregation you could hear some little whispers of people wondering what made this man believe he was the son of God and not just Joseph, the carpenter. His voice had no charisma. It lacked that magic and fire that John the Baptist (now in prison) had had in those days when he had baptized people in this very same sea, calling them of the wicked generation, calling them to turn away from their sins...
2 comments
Read more

Wet pillars

If someone ever tells you that in chasing dreams then you need not rest, nor chase anything else, then you will have met a liar. Or a prophet. Or a fake motivational speaker. Most likely, two of these. For, there will be moments when those dreams become elusive and frustrating. In that, you will need something else – a distraction. Or, a detour – a longer route to the dreams. You do not give up on dreams. Not that easily. But you detour from them and return with a new energy. She never had to sit under a fake motivational speaker, so she knows all there is to chasing dreams. From an actual practice. “The thing is: I had my life planned.” She gave herself deadlines: marriage? Yes, I want that thing but not before getting my Master qualification. Children? Yes, those tiny little angels; I want them too, but only after I am properly married. Love? Yes, that too. Overflowing. I want it. Anytime. Anyhow. And, of those, love was the first one to come. It found her w...
Post a Comment
Read more