It’s been a while. But I’d like to share this piece I especially wrote for Pluma’s third year anniversary (September 14). Visit Pluma’s official website and blog for more features.
–
If only the burning of bridges
remains an idiot’s idiom
and we could still dream of flowerbeds
and never hear gunshots
of freedom from a remote uproar
lay the sword to rest –
what powers does it hold under a child’s gaze?
even time halts for mourning
when the sharp edges of tyranny
dug deep down their tiny bellies
Telling them
Told me
why must we smell the flowers?
read people with dead shot eyes
after a while
the trees shall whisper
some so-called heroes’ anthem
who spoiled the soil that fed them
while our ruins
are traded for inorganic memories
or so history went
and thought free verse rhymes
or weaves a synopsis of the future
but we refuse to breathe
the putrid lies
our masked men feed
a gold miner’s poverty
we tread
alongside fragile footsteps.
–
-Armineonila M., 2016
–
Mini musing: The pen is mighty until its ink had dried out.
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