Poetry… from Syeda Zakia Ahsan
Blackbird's song
I sit on a tree twittering to my friends,
Watching the bright blue summer sky.
I dream with the bracing air, I wake
To the sound of a big lorry.
I am a blackbird. I play, I see children in posh cars
Going to school. Why do I also see
Boys and girls running after shiny
Cars in tattered clothes? Little children play in the streets,
In sunlight, in rain, in the storm.
'They haven't seen a school, a pencil
In their lives', my friend the robin said. We go on singing the song of spring.
The children below the trees join us,
Whistling.
My friends are the sand, the winds
And cacti
I make houses from sand
The winds topple them I pick flowers from cacti
I make my little garden beside the
Sand castles
The thorns prick me badly
My hands bleed I have seen flying objects in the Sky
I have heard cracker blasts
I have not seen them
But they broke down homes
And killed people
I had thought crackers were
Shining stars
I saw my little brother die
In front of me
I lost my brother in November.
I will have no Eid, Salma said.
She will be alone this time.
She lost all her family in the war. Salma and I sat in a desert corner
Next to a tethered camel and
Reminisced on our last Christmas And Eid. There will be no Father Christmas
And no Eid day;
No Christmas pie and no biryani.
We looked out at the desert. I began playing with my doll
And Salma built sand castles
That kept breaking down,
Like life's fountainhead crushed. I hate war.
I want my brother back . . .
And Salma her parents.
Watching the bright blue summer sky.
I dream with the bracing air, I wake
To the sound of a big lorry.
I am a blackbird. I play, I see children in posh cars
Going to school. Why do I also see
Boys and girls running after shiny
Cars in tattered clothes? Little children play in the streets,
In sunlight, in rain, in the storm.
'They haven't seen a school, a pencil
In their lives', my friend the robin said. We go on singing the song of spring.
The children below the trees join us,
Whistling.
Afghan child
I was born in the desertMy friends are the sand, the winds
And cacti
I make houses from sand
The winds topple them I pick flowers from cacti
I make my little garden beside the
Sand castles
The thorns prick me badly
My hands bleed I have seen flying objects in the Sky
I have heard cracker blasts
I have not seen them
But they broke down homes
And killed people
I had thought crackers were
Shining stars
I saw my little brother die
In front of me
On the sands
On Christmas Day my mother cried.I lost my brother in November.
I will have no Eid, Salma said.
She will be alone this time.
She lost all her family in the war. Salma and I sat in a desert corner
Next to a tethered camel and
Reminisced on our last Christmas And Eid. There will be no Father Christmas
And no Eid day;
No Christmas pie and no biryani.
We looked out at the desert. I began playing with my doll
And Salma built sand castles
That kept breaking down,
Like life's fountainhead crushed. I hate war.
I want my brother back . . .
And Salma her parents.
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