There are twenty six alphabets strong enough to make someone’s day, or make you fall in love, maybe even hold destruction by the scruff of its neck and save the planet. You can raise toasts, gods, hell and sing them lullabies. You can turn humans into life-savers. There are twenty six alphabets at the core of every soul.
I visited a dead city once. It had no roads, no shelters, no bodies. There were only broken walls, shattered roads, and souls – an aftermath of war. I believe that after our final lesson of letting go of life, the souls learn how to stay and so among these ruins, they kick back, relax, and love cosmically because this graveyard was and is their home. In the wreckage, on some stones, I found epitaphs “A. Stark, died protecting his family”. On others, I found eulogies written by one dead friend to another dead friend. There was destruction here but also a promise that these souls were safe from humans. There was hate but also love, my fear but also my hope.
I’m scared that the world will end in war,
that the last thing we’ll hear
will be a battlecry or the silent roars of bombs,
that we’ll go out with a big bang too.
We’ll fight for just a day too long
and spit curses,
catapulting us towards oblivion.
I’m afraid that with the flick of a switch,
we’ll ‘factory data reset’ the world
and just like that, cease to exist.
No more history, no more books, no more readers.
Just broken buildings and the howls
of nature. Smoke, ash, death.
I’m very scared that this tendency
of humans to fill in silences with noise
will lead us to destruction
because not many of us understand
that silences and peace are deep conversations
and war is small talk.
But I am also hopeful
that love will save some of us.
When the human call of death comes,
two young souls will hide.
People with hearts so in love that the universe
deems it too big a loss
to lose them.
I’ve always pictured these two kids
finding shelter in the deepest corners
of the world. If need be, the Earth will crack open
and keep them safe inside.
They’ll be put to sleep while heaven
sings them lullabies
and hell itself rises to protect them.
No war, no screams, no hate
will reach them.
And when they’re ready, they’ll come back up and be our next Adam and Eve. I’m hopeful that something as magical as love will bring us back to life.
“it’s easy to be a writer in 2019” what makes you think it’s easy to be a writer ever? Some get traumatized by bullying or an early divorce or assault and they write war cries down on paper. Every syllable, every decibel, screaming louder than their oppressors. It’s the scream, the pain, the voice of survival. Some stay happy because everything worked out and they pen down crooked smiles and sunshine on paper. They heal you one hope at a time. I write about love because even though my heart has been broken, it’s still beating and I find that magical. I find it amazing that I can live as a thousand pieces and love new people in new ways. I find it beautiful that a broken heart still falls in love when it needs to.
About a month ago, news came that a young man had died protecting two women in Sudan. He was shot. His favorite color was blue and that’s where #blueforsudan comes from. They still need our help and that’s only possible through spreading awareness. So this is me, doing that in the way I know how to.
This poem is fictitious but hopeful.
(TW: misery, death)
26, died protecting two women.
Stood like a wall
made of every instance throughout his life that made him
the man we know;
protecting his humanity to the very last breath.
With his finger wrapped around the width
of his mother’s finger
like a burka around the head,
he must’ve said his first proper word when he was 17 months old.
“aas-” giggles “-rakkh” drools.
His mother must’ve told his abbu and cried a little.
Despite living in a conservative household,
his parents probably spoke to him about everything.
He must’ve known about the horrors women had to face
at the hands of men who slaved for liquor,
at the hands of monsters that called themselves human.
While his bedtime stories were of castles,
his dreams must’ve been of being worthy of it.
When Mohamed turned 13,
he cut a black forest cake for the first time.
It must’ve been a gift
because his friend’s mother had called to thank him
for saving her kid from the bullies,
or judging by the type of man he was,
it must’ve been a gift by the bullies to thank him
for making them human.
Some random facts about him that I think
could be true:
His first breakup was mutual.
His favorite food was kofta.
He was always a good man.
His favorite t-shirt had the graphic of a cute doggo.
He loved cats too.
His mother was proud of him.
One fact that is definitely true:
we are proud of him.
Two hours before he became the voice of Sudan, he cut a black forest cake for the last time. He’s gone but his first word has stayed behind, to protect. 26, died protecting two women.
I know I’ve written a lot about war. Last one for quite some time, promise. Enjoy reading this, though! And please spread peace and love.
You have not seen ruins
The way 1945 has.
During the world war,
The schools that taught discipline
learned to have safety drills
and teach antonyms of peace.
The teenager that loved playing football
trained in the army
and often fought for the one thing bigger than him.
Weapons clashed so often,
it drowned all music,
and sang the lyrics of ‘Where we left off’.
I’ll share one story with you. August 9, Nagasaki.
A three-year-old Yasujiro was playing in his house.
He was tearing the pages of a book
when he was blinded by a white light
like a million camera flashes.
Oh, how I wish it was really just cameras.
He was found under the debris of his house
among many other things
like his broken toys and an open book.
He’s grateful to have survived
But he lost so many things that mattered
His sleep, his hearing, his will to live.
He is happy now.
When someone knows they’ll die
and they get to send one last message
it is always filled with love
it is always an ‘I love you’
an ‘I will miss you’.
You know why?
Because they do,
Is war really worth the open book?