Where I am From

Be All what you cannot be

Where I’m From?

I am from the old decaying factories, scorched earth

And distended bellies of starving kids — mocking God.

I am from concrete buildings, soulless office towers

Underneath which, the cries of the laborers are muffled.

By the noise of the diesel trucks, slamming on brakes

Where poverty is a reality,

More believable than the moons and stars

No, Wait.

I am from the land where mountain stones,

Carve themselves into beautiful monuments.

So that the backs of the poor are not broken carrying them.

Where my poems bring back home the lost pet dogs,

So that kids do not have to cry themselves to sleep

Where flute songs mingle with the winds.

And soothe the faces of tired, haggard travelers.

Where the bullets from the sniper rifle

Disintegrate before they hit my forehead

I am from the Land of Hope and Kisses

And moans in the darkness from mingled bodies.

I am from the land, where a lover traps his beloved’s gaze

Like a firefly in collapsed, calloused hands,

So that she could remember to smile, once more.

Where, after the storm, the broken limbs of a tree,

Build themselves back and become whole again.

Where once beggar boys and girls, become millionaires.

And where writers write the obituaries of these lads and gals

To keep the blood pouring out of their eyes.

Where all the broken pieces of a wretched life,

Sometimes glitters in the darkness — an imperfect perfection.

Where an artist sometimes dips her brush,

In the warm blood of her lover, to paint her masterpiece.

And where gentle squeeze of a trigger, a .50 BMG bullet,

Leaving a Barrett M82 sets her lover free.

For the price of a meal from McDonald's.

I am from the land of old abandoned, deserted rusting cars

And where freight trains once ruled the earth.

With all their masculinity, might and Power

Where conversations are held between silences and not words

Where winged Angels of Hope flew so close to the Sun

Even their souls turned to smoke.

Where my fears become giant cockroaches

Roaming the wasteland of this thing called life,

Where we offer our outstretched necks to the stranglers,

And invite strangers to our bedrooms

Where M249 bullets slam against the armoured cars

Sparks flying — a kaleidoscope of butterflies

Where carefully laid out plans, built over centuries

Are disrupted forever.

Like a motor scooter crossing a desert.

I am Hope.