They told me:
‘endless blood must be spilt for peace’
and you are naive if you imagine a
different world.
You must wake to bitter gun shots, and
the soft chirping of birds, alike.
You must find tranquility in the:
indebtedness of your time,
labelling of your body,
exploitation of your beliefs, or
you will never know any at all.
But I told them:
softness is rifled
when there are sharp, unforgiving
bangs.
And bleeding dry won’t bring us
freedom only war.
And they said I would stand alone,
among the perilous bridges
that I’d tirelessly built from our end to theirs,
so there would no longer be ours or theirs.
I waited… waited… waited.
My longing hope painted across my face
in flashing lights.
And then, I saw their dancing silhouettes.
They had come.
And my eyes glazed like the surface of a
thundering ocean.
And then, we were like branches, reaching for the
blossom-strewn sky and humble truth together.
And the only blood that was left
was the one in the sunset
we beheld.
Anam Iqbal
Anam Iqbal 