Poetry

ROHINGYA: The stateless people

wgmgRohingyaCNN

Where we are is where the ocean throws,
How long has it been? Not a soul knows,
Guilty not of any such crime,
Yet here we are, riding the waves to pass the time,

Provisions dwindled like ocean foam,
As the waves caved in and sealed our tombs,
Somewhere to go, somewhere to flee,
But they all can’t stand the sight of me,

Unwanted and forgotten wherever we go,
Waves climbing as spirits sink ever so low,
It wasn’t long before they’d drowned all hopes,
And thoughts of home became no more than old, torn ropes,

What if we returned? How much better would we fare?
Would we even barely keep our heads in the air?
It wasn’t long after before our blood-curdling screams,
Slowly simmered down into forgotten, distant dreams,

Now is only the hunger that I feel no more,
And the scalding sun that no longer sores,
The stench of urine that stopped bothering me,
And the cries of children that have become normality,

What use is it to scream or to weep or to feel,
If the world doesn’t bother to perceive our pain as real,
Because our floating struggle is anything but new,
But one can only ask,
What if they knew?

~Azzam Anwar
London (16/05/15)

Photo courtesy of CNN

Poetry

The Marathon called Time

Does life have to be this way?
A collection of fleeting moments,
never to return after they’ve rocketed past our eyes?

We spend our precious seconds chasing the futures bounties,
never accounting for the decades we let slip through the cracks between our fingers,
and the sweets of today we are too starry-eyed to notice,

Why do the pictures we took yesterday have to turn into old photographs?
Forced to deteriorate in the infinite depths of photo albums we naturally latch on to,
which tease and mock us,
us,
victims of the tsunami of time that towers above all with no exception,
decimating all in it’s path…

Why do our dreams have to lay stagnant and decaying on the ground,
while it is time that flies?
Flies and waits for no one,
enjoying it’s birds eye view of us old souls,
marvelling at our beautiful yesterdays that ran away from us so fast,
almost as fast as our tomorrows which blaze in the opposite direction,
leaving in their wake a false hope of better,

so we run to our tomorrows just as fast,
with blind eyes and deceived minds,

Until we forget what we live in a time of nows,
until we no longer recognise the stories we tell of ourselves as being our own,
until we forget what got us running,
until we are too confused to notice our collision with our final tomorrow,
until it is too late to start turning back,

Does life have to be this way?

~Azzam Anwar