Of things that become our shadows | Day 41

I burn my body with fire
Dripping from cold silence
At every sight of a woman- carrying a body
Beautified by her demons
It reminds me of times
That dried the waters in my mother's vein
With the heat wrecking bodies with sorrowful hymns
Times that taught me to look back in time
In search of things that draw men
Closer to the left hand of God

Things like the sadness in the eyes of a boy- stranded between fateful pages of life
Like the voice trailing a girl's skin
With the echoes of her father's last prayer.
There are things that leave their footprints
In our hearts, through the openings on our skins
Where a boy once stood before a mirror
& saw the reflection of his soon-to-burn body
Where lost girls sleep on bed of stones
Hoping the moon call they home

Where water is a way into tales
That does not hold the bodies of women
Living their dead for survival
Women- dressed in black
Weeping with their children's portraits
These things are the dark images
Projected on a surface in our veins
Where light is blocked by the shades of darkness
Darkening our sights to the other side of the world
Where men sit with angels on a piano

Recreating life with songs holding candles to dark rooms
Songs on the tongue of birds with rainbow wings
Songs rising into the heavens with melodious sounds of hallelujah
These things are the reflected images
In the eyes of men, transformed into burnt names
And into cities- surrounded with walls, painted with grieve
These things are the memories of the dead
Sneaking into silent places in our bones
Where everything smell of blood, sweat and burnt history.

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