the colour harmony!!

    After Aylan Kurdi You know what red is What is to be faceless and What mornings can bring you.   Sea shore is no more a theatre Where you go watch the flames of the setting sky. But a menu card, That exhibit soft flesh Cold and frozen out of her womb For the stillborn us, building castles on the sandbank.   After Aylan Kurdi, Don’t speak of mother’s love, It will drown before dreams sprout wings. And fathers too slip In to a world of hollow pits.   Don’t speak of love, Of you and me and other kinds On Starry nights, Where dreams come true. Nights are for watch towers like owls, looking for prey and wind, like waves in your lungs.   After Aylan Kurdi, Exodus is not just about borders But, the fluidities of the borderless races Floating, In ships, boats and on their backs.   ...

My dissected history won’t speak for you. Don’t write on me or on the graffiti that sing of Marley. Your lyrics are your own, that build bricks of closures. Words are polygamous Like rain is to swirls on a pond But dear, My canvas carries yellow fields Like Van Gogh did To the hill top Where birds flew in fright.      

A woman is but the land beside the river Flowing into the original sins of the fluids. Her throat, the curve over the valley, a steaming volcano from the fresh wraths of a love, lost.   The cultivable land The axe The seeds The sprout. The summers of her man As a distant canvas. No lizards cross the wall Nor do snakes, on the road Only frozen pole stars, Waiting for the womb, The red earth beneath the grave of fireflies.      

If convictions framed histories How awkward would have the world looked like Bulging here and there like ginger hunchbacks   How fast the pathway vanishes in to the dark wood Leaving no trail of the distances covered.   Each call you make to your home From hill tops of brown and white Carry the stillness of the yet to be.   Who said life is not a bed of roses? Roses are vineyards And vineyards blackouts.