Ripples.


You sit out here all day in your chair; throw pebbles I collect for you in that pond with your flickering fingers.

Why do you do that?

I suppose because  stillness would mean death for you, even more than you already are.

©2014. Habiba Danyal

Exactly 42 words for Yeah Write’s Gargleblaster # 158. This week’s question is:

“Tell me something, old friend: why are you fighting?”

I who had killed…


Snow, as white as truth;

lay heaped beneath me.

And fell from the white sky,

getting caught occasionally,

in my lashes and brows.

And pooled in the hollows

of my long awakened eyes.

Eyes that lacked life,

that had witnessed

a shade too grey and black-

black, as black as sin.

And even though,

the whole sky had spilled its white,

to wash my blackened soul,

that peeped through,

those glazed empty holes.

Despite its effort to wash off the stain,

that was I,

on the face of this earth;

I who had killed

and let others kill.

And I who was the rage of wars,

the fury of devil, himself.

I who had spattered blood,

on feeble mud walls

And I, who had let blood dye

A rag doll’s belly, red.

I, who had sieved the walls

of mosques that stood in peace,

with bullets and I who had burned,

churches and temples,

where bells struck as one,

in unison and  perfect harmony.

I, who had hung their youth,

with clothe lines in their yards.

And I, who had urinated,

on their Books and women.

I, who had raped their daughters

and mothers alike.

Blood had clouded my brain,

and curtained my eyes with a veil.

A veil not thick enough,

to bottle my wrath, my lunacy.

And alas, tired of trying

to do away with me, my sins.

Snow covered me with mounds,

and buried me deep, -er.

To hide nature’s flaw,

that was I, in flesh and blood.

 

©2013. Habiba Danyal