We hold onto
our scars like trophies:
Token
momentos of causes we purported to fight,
Just so we
could have wounds to display our valour.
We stagger to
damp homes emptied of children’s cackles:
The scents
of cheerful cooking linger only in distant memory.
Our fate summons mixed omens:
in one shell looms the inevitable spectre of doom-
a dense
black smog, jungle dark and mute;
in the other
soundless sparks of hope flicker,
dotting the
dense smog with yellowy dots of fire.
The young
grit their teeth as the old anxiously chew on lips.
Their eyes
are dead and hollow;
shrivelled
carcases of tailless tadpoles floating in dead water.
Is it a jinx,
this battling
for ends that lead to new wars?
Are we
headless chicken flapping frightened wings
in a tightly
sealed ring, lapping circles in paroxysm?
We are warriors
without nations to protect,
Our fists thirst
for victories to quench our hearts with respect.
2015
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