Poems

Message of a Martyr

Your pencil aimed such that the output was the hearth
            and in the earth among my concerns is the rising air 
Your pencil aimed, O jab [piqure], and not I
            from murder feigned, nor I a runaway
I, from my blood, my land greens and enlivens
            And a generation grows up familiar with the concern as a   
                                                                       promise
And grows arms from every shore
            grows worries and develops wings
They take out mortgages in order to remain in their home land
            In all quarters every direction it freezes
I am the earth my love where I used to stay
            Theres is nostalgia stuck to love eternal
I do not mind waking at dawn staggering
            I do not mind destroying the thundering