WHO COMPOSED THIS SONG? : A POEM
That is trying to dance to a song
But the song is lost to me.
The song is a verse.
The song is a poem.
The song is a story.
It is a life but it is not mine
So how can my feet dance?
To play this tune, to whisper this verse,
To create beauty out of these ashes that I see?
Is it the chorus of broken chords
Of esophagus stained with smoke?
Is it the buried epigram lying in the cemetery
Where burnt corpse lie positioned like mannequins
Before the store front in some lost village?
That have peeled off the asphalt
As bomb explode, taking parts
That where important two hours ago into oblivion?
What is this song?
To this composition of sublime, exquisite pain?
How can someone dance to this?
Who will play the keys and pay the piper?
Who will lead the routine, the rehearsal?
Who will grieve, who will grieve for this children
That are unfettered, unchained, free to roam
Like ghosts lost between here and there.
We have choked the breath of life from their lips
And like balloons they have squeezed themselves
Into tiny, flaccid skins.
But we are not bothered
After all, there’s nothing between us.
I do not know you, you do not know me.
I owe you nothing but these words.
Or will the guitar strings carry the weight
Of this fear, of this pain?
Or will someone’s drumstick thrum and try to create beats
Out of this tiny fraction of someone’s existence.
Because there are no answers here.
There is nothing here, nothing between us.
And it is obvious that I will hear it tomorrow.
It plays, it plays, it plays on and on and
I want it to stop.
But is it this song or the call of a bird
Or the cry of a mother searching for her child
Within the debris of a bombed out building?
Or is it the scream of a father
As he watches his wife and daughters
Being raped by men he once called brothers?
What is this song, I ask again?
It is a curious thing, this feeling,
This emotional trauma that comes between each verse
That cleaves and stops everything in its tracks
And for a second light comes into your eyes and you see
And it fades again and you become an automaton,
Going about your job, going about your life, if you can call it that.
Until something else happens again
And you stop and you question and you seek
Then like erm, a robot with its switch coming on
You pause and you go back to what you are used to.
The tapes are twinning in and ceasing and
You can hear the sound as it screeches
Twists, twists and twist and cuts.
The songs ends but, no!
It’s still playing in my head.
Who wrote this song?
Who composed this pain, this death, this fear?
Who brought this to us?
Who?
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