Sometimes roses paint my paint,
Or rather they paint my skin,
My blood inked in these sorrows,
How sweet the smell of my skin,
How you can taste the hurt I have embedded in me,
I carry the holes of my brothers hearts in my hands,
Carry them, as if carrying their coffins,
With the kalmah spread over black and green sheet,
They constantly ask me questions of the past,
and I am forced to relive and apologise on others behalf,
For what their eyes cannot unsee.
Abdullah,
Internalised hurt, throttled from the neck down,
Throat cannot spit words even if he begged the voice to,
Chest cavity as empty as our Mothers heart,
His ribs lifting the limp organs he carries,
Broken rib, cannot be fixed with apologies,
He has scars sealed into his skin,
The way she would starve him,
Even in Ramadan,
How he would sleep at the Mosque,
The lack of true homes scarce,
How can one be so cruel?
When the killer reignites,
She askes for forgiveness,
The family gather at the sight of effort,
Thinks she has changed?
Where does she run to?
Of course her sons,
He apologises,
With his beard soaked in tears,
His crooked skeleton,
heart seared in dismay,
I pray I could bring him back my Father,
Bring some respite to these rocky mountains,
He is the climber who has fallen,
I watch him frozen, stuck,
Yet I am alive,
Breathing,
Seared in scars, yes,
But living, moving, grieving, growing.
There is no stagnancy in this,
I am the wolf that hunts,
I run with my brothers,
In effort they will come join this pack