Fever
The fever takes refuge in us.
It oversleeps to the warmness
and builds a footbridge to the alien world.
Our ancestors’ spirits struggle
to get rid of the wilderness
that had thrived within their tissues.
They wish to ward off evil eyes
and desire to come back to us.
The time had been suffering from dementia, allowing our bodies to break through
the barrier of flames. Our dreams
would roast in the breeze, causing the
gardens to fall apart.
The storms that once consumed droughts
now flap their wings, carrying
the eternal stench of burnt ashes.
And with each gust from within,
it ruffles the feathers, tickling
the inevitable death, that always
waits to enshroud us after every eclipse
in our ancient lands, migrating from
the opposing horizons.
Vanished witches fish out
the bad omens from the bloodstream.
They chisel omens into raw crystals,
inhaling their luminescent smiles.
The nightmares emerge from the depths
like newborn wild spiders, weaving their lives
into silken threads that intertwine with our nerves, composing the pain of the past generations within ageing bodies into a haunting melody.
The goddess of despair would accompany
the legend of illnesses, practising
singing and dancing at each other’s funerals.
Hundreds of plays keep running within us.
The half-boiled body is a stage, and the fever is also a curtain that ends and starts the suffering.
War times
We in our homes
keep watching the news on television,
we try to catch with our eyes how
they, like the wounded rabbits,
keep running on the borderline
of the emergency news strip.
The tears of another country
swelter in our palms
and run down as rivulets.
The goddesses of terror
continues to haunt
the happiness of the war-refugees.
The brinks of each eye
keep collecting the corpses
that were torn apart by bombs,
which, conceived with the death’s incarnation.
Without crossing the borders,
our nostrils suffocate with chemicals.
our bodies ferment in the blood of war.
A quiver resides within your body,
stirring you every minute.
The resurgence of fear in you
governs every part of you.
One day,
in your dream,
everything edible turns to ashes,
signifying the
transient nature of wealth and life.
Resurrection
A day,
When you exile yourself
from your ever-changing maze,
your desires propel you towards the green.
You will be amidst the woods
like a new sapling,
seeking a form of earth or sunlight.
The tranquillity of the forest
could envelop you in a sense of solitude.
You strive to endure;
your heart must carry the spirit of a gipsy.
The voice you hear among the foliage
can sketch abstract landscapes
brewing inside the green’s womb.
The situation squeezes out your imagination. Sometimes it flies away in any direction
in search of a vast canvas to pour itself out.
The towering poles
that obscure the light
keep shedding their leaves
as you recount your memories
along the path you have travelled.
Your absent shadow transforms into a firefly, listening to you in wonder.
The rocks and pebbles beneath your feet
ask for an offering, but your heart refuses. However, your fragile memory
stops you in your track, full of pebbles and rocks,
and there’s a red light seeping out as if it has finally cracked open after centuries of imprisonment.
The fossils, fur, and feathers along your way
ask you to grant them immortality,
demonstrating your love by showering the rumbling sky upon them.
Talking to every patch of green,
you release your sensitivities, love, and emotions that your blood carried, connecting you
with the landscape.
The fragile thread of your breath
ignites the shoots of untamed trees
the untamed memories that fester within you
provide a path for seeking atonement
and they rest.
