Waterless rain

Waterless rain
Waterless rain

Five years down the line

Not even to show is there grain

Have these lazy moons died really?

Now kneeling has become the best trade

And with dusty dry baskets people parade.


Brown dust paints the roadsides

As the occasional rusty head teacher’s junk passes

Jiggers decorate the dirty dry toes of the aged

Bellied children with sunken eyes

With stubborn flies

And rats

And shallow sandy graves replicate.


He bellows from his outstretched pot belly

Collect water, collect the water!


Fighting for us for five fine years

Fierce fears of the famine clog our hearts

Fighting for our fair share of the rain

Says it is raining now

Blood and vapour from our sweat?

No one can prove the fight

Checking whether the limo is as scarred as our skins

For men with acres of chests and sacks for arms

In dark clothes and hidden eyes

Speaking some tongue foreign to the ear

Protect the machine from our poor eyes

The one I hear is so shiny it reflects

Our wealth of life and rain.

The rain is dry

Lest he mocks the torrents from our eyes

The thunder and lightning

Make our containers even drier

But tomorrow

Heavy cheers and ululations shall kill the deaf

His welcome to speak

Give me again

To bring more rain

New banknotes shall exchange hands

A ticket for five more years.

Trap of the jewels

Image courtesy of Partners International
Image courtesy of Partners International

Why am I in prison?
Why am I still captive?
Why do I nurture fears?
That whet their swords for my neck?
Why am I still afraid?
Why is my sight lazy?
Why am I angry
Why am I tired?

Collecting has bound my hands
Chained my mind
And rusted my heart
For every day I arise into the self-made jail
To get or to kill
Then get, or kill more
The sun shines but I don’t see its beautiful rays
Its light only illuminates the voids
That need to be filled.

Why still captive of war?
With the mice black and white
To do or be done
You get, you smile; you miss, you curse
I scramble like the rat
I sweat like the seas
I forget myself and forget my kin
I forget the forces that make me be
But tomorrow shall still come
Stretching empty hands.

Wait –
How long is this sentence?
I also don’t know
I have replaced torn bags
Yet every morning I find them empty
Why do I sweat when tomorrow will be void?
– If it will come –
And me, not free?

To Our Fallen Hero

You died in the line of duty

In the name of the motherland

What a noble cause you were on

You died at the filthy feet of the terrorist

Who deserved not the right to life

Nature looked on as you succumbed

To the crime of the heartless

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We shall engrave your tombstone

In pearls of diamond and pearls of gold

With the most touching romance

Here lies the rumbler of the jungle

Owner of a million stars

Conqueror of battalions

Pride of our courage

Most beloved of our hearts

Son of our most beloved

We the living have nothing short of praise.

If our hairs were pens and our streams wells of ink

And the leaves paper and forests multiplied

Time unlimited and energies granted

We would run out of ink and paper

Booking down your deeds now gone.

Your symbol of courage and strength

Your sojourn that was glory

Shall forever be our story

That if white and black die and its narration undone

Our children and those of them shall

Keep you in song and speak of the legend

To their children to the world’s end.

If the sea valleys were baskets

Our tears would still be orphans of space

As we mourn you departed hero.

Miles and miles you went

Past the border of the land

Into the jungle of the devil

In the scorching sun and tiring sand

Wails of their children and women

Did not freeze your feet

You weren’t deceived by the quiet of their villages

You marched on and on

Trouncing, torching, rumbling in true spirit

The pride of the land

No order given did you belittle

Even when you saw in it pain


And you let metals talk


And you remained patriot


You remembered your hunger

You will forever remain our hero.

We shall name our children after your name

You whose life was to himself a souvenir

And were slaughtered by the terrorist

Cutting short your hunger to slaughter.

Clear to dignity

Silent is what it was
The air pregnant on tension
Loudly and silent
The dilapidated whistling water pipes tense
Even the buzzing fly had now gone dumb
In a moment of silence, watching with disgust.
A moment to make clear the way
To secure the dreams
Into humanity
Into dignity.

She stared at the browning dirty bowl
Which did nothing but look back
The silent shrills in her ears were deafening
The handle of the flush bowl
Seemed to be in silent whispers with the water
The spiders hid their eyes not to see
For they had no courage to look
Yet nothing moved
Save the irregular heaving of her chest
And the loaded hands that were trembling

The door was safely bolted
And the lights turned off into semi darkness
No disturbance was likely
Her bloodied hands still held the polythene bag –
¬-What she did not want to see
The otherwise blur to her horizons
Of affluence and human dignity
Though the walls did not know this
They looked at her in sympathy; frowning
Oh! Daughter of His Majesty

A figure moved
The handle turned
The brown bowl changed red
Almost to the brim
Water filled threatening a vomit
She held her breath even longer
Then the sink coughed
And took with it flesh and blood
Took with it a breath away
As the curious flies re-turned mad