I cannot see the moon from my window tonight.

I can only see autumn trees wail in distances,

Mourning the sleeping kids massacred by the king.

I can hear the song of the rustling withering leaves,

Trying to sing a lullaby, cradling the earth of these sleeping kids

I can make out the silent sobs of the mother

Who keeps playing with the toys her child left behind

I can feel the coarse hair of a battered father.

Can feel the remorseless darkness in my habitation;

And I see the feeble light shining in bleeding hearts,

The faded fire these hearths have held

I cannot see the moon from my window tonight.

I hear the fruit seller still comes searching for Sameer

Hands filled with new harvest searching for those tiny steps,

In narrow interwoven lanes the jackboots have not erased,

I hear the friends of Tufail still call out his name,

Hoping the return of loved ones from no return lands,

The bloom of the hundred gardens that were stomped

Never been replaced, their winters saw no spring.

I cannot see the moon from my window tonight.

The narration of children stories lay silent in their homes,

Now their mothers sit alone by the window to weave characters

The cradles of these children lay motionless and blank,

Creaking in grief in the still of the night

I see the vortex that has evolved in these eyes,

The void of these faces, the questions with no replies

The silence here creates its own deafening noises,

These shrieks from nowhere, piercing hearts

Eyes that have tired searching for moonlight.

I cannot see the moon from my window tonight.

 

 

 

~S~

14th October 2011

 

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