The outlines of my hands quiver in the rush of air, a whiff of decayed Syria hangs high;
it’s wants unappeased, it’s needs unattended- while we march with fresh and barbed instruments of torture.
Immense was such a night of suffering, where I ventured towards the dark of the shoreless ocean to tidy my hands. My hands have been the worst sufferers of an arsonist’s mistakes-
The night of our attack, it lifted the butchered body of its own brother; who promised to return unscathed. perhaps, war makes one a liar.
I feel strange pity for these timorous hands which fail to accomodate the wildest sobs, in lone and lengthened nights of grief; as though it is the one entrusted to ease my pain and put me to sleep.
And when I am in robust health, it adorns garlands around my hair, of white tinsels, purple and blue and I walk through fens and farmland into the unnamed civilization where men name me their God.
My hands drunk with fatigue, then crumble into clumsy fragments from nursing too much of my sorrow. A vile, incurable sore yet with such high zest it proceeds to undo the thickened ropes from around the neck of the mothers- perhaps fastened to silence their misery. Now they are silent.
These hands help me compose this poetry; an ode to itself. A mere atonement for all the times I have made it bleed for me. So I write,
hoping it would forgive me.
(Series: On war, Renaissance art, embracing art)
(Picture credits: Pexels)