Sitting backwards, on the move. Wondering, where I should look if i want to look ahead?

A blender for war and toothpaste for peace?

Travelers who write about people and places they have never seen.

So what if I know so little about you?
I still look to you to find my questions to my answers.
Just that I can't see you anymore.
But I still know more about you,
than I know about God.

Through my eyes, you are always an interpretation.

I measure the period between two shells. One second.
One second: shorter than the time between breathing in and breathing out, between two heartbeats.
One second is not long enough for me to stand before the stove by the glass facade that overlooks the sea.
One second is not long enough to open the water bottle or pour the water into the coffee pot.
One second is not long enough to light a match.
But one second is long enough for me to burn.

-Mahmoud Darwish.

When death charmed the virgin bullet,
When war was expectant with warriors, the children of death,
the spirit spat out,
corpses of stallions into the drowning seas,
the valiance of battalions on unforgiving battlefields.
Bodies made of life, for Nations made of land. Both scalded.

If we were not a bewitched audience to tall men, megaphones and numb speeches.
Instead.
Voyeurs in this bloodbath.
If classrooms of history stood amidst this theatre of war,
And saw the carnage play out through a scarlet glass,
Would we be part of this planned Serendipity?
A part of this rehearsal,
For yet another war for peace?

It’s funny how you don’t steal my thoughts. Funny how you only hear my words, and not my voice. For if the words fell silent, there would be no us.

Like water burnt
Like a fish with a shadow
Like penance backwards,
I repent, I do.
Littered with infamy then imagined memories. I remember.
Because I cannot cry.

Why I Cant Write Poetry

An utterance so void,
I held on tight.
Drops of tears ran Pell mell,
Whether to soak the heart, or wet the brow

Reckless ink, spattering into forms so hollow,
Words that had renounced meaning,
and thoughts so shallow.

Buried behind the white window,
were murky blotches so viscous.
It coloured her soul,
and fastened beliefs,
that grazed into lands so fallow.

The word and the thought
Chase to the burrow.
Seeking their origins,
pondering if the word was an after-thought,
or the thought, the word’s puppeteer.

The violence of language,
the façade that are words,
deceive the thought,
Glorifying a recluse,
pronouncing him a holy ascetic or a pseudo-seer.

She knocked into her emptiness,
And the voidness resonated.
The gluttony of the words it said,
charmed her melancholy into poetry,
obscured the silence within.
Bared, flustered and unlayered.

The anarchy of the word’s conquest,
Its overcast over every thought.
Damned, in silent whispers,
To herself, she started to talk.

A word unspoken,
Is a thought unscathed?
The tongue that utters,
leaves the self unmasked.