Now this MUST be the effect of too much Arab-Israeli conflict.
Havent updated much lately, and this is the one 'poem' that I have with me and that I havent posted already so...
Although it must be said that the following is too poetic to be a newspaper article and too bland to be poetry. Note to self: The language I use for essay is starting to affect the way I write in general. Must Stop This. Needs editing though, dont have time or patiene to edit.
Eulogy for a suicide bomber.
Farah Tasneem Tracy
She wore her weapon of choice around her torso
A doomed corset of destruction hugging her fragile bones.
She looked across the street at the cafe- her nemesis, her assignment, her destiny.
A pack of office-returning shiny faces wearing shiny clothes enter into the café-
Laughing, talking as though this were a perfectly happy place;
And not the scarred, incomplete, unidentifiable piece of land
that spawned violence and bloodshed around the seasons.
She saw a little boy walk into the café with his father.
The boy’s face became the face of her little brother- her favorite companion.
Who was still smiling when they came- the nameless, faceless soldiers.
They shot her brother first and then her father.
She tasted fear in her dry mouth.
But this is revenge, she thought boldly.
She imagined the big explosion
Gray smoke, the smell of burnt skin
Pieces of hot human flesh- men, women, children- mingled in a death mess.
She thought of the smaller explosion.
The one inside her head.
Rage, despair, and hopelessness, causing havoc with her sense of reason and logic.
She imagined her own body blown to bits and pieces
Her pride- her beautiful, dark hair neatly tucked inside her scarf- charred and brittle.
She will die the death of a martyr, she thought valiantly.
A death many have died before her
And many will die after her.
Her soul will resurrect and inhabit the mind and body
Of another young avenging fellow countryman.
Countryman- inhabitants of a country that exists in their minds and hearts only.
They country that is their dream.
A small voice inside her regrets- but you have only lived so few springs.
But can you experience spring in Hell?, she asked back.
NO, you cannot.
I will leave one hell for another for in life heaven didn’t find me
And in death I won’t find heaven.
But the souls of the martyrs will celebrate the day our beloved motherland turns into heaven.
She crossed the street with proud, confident steps.
Her still eyes resolute- each second getting closer and closer to death.
Closer to end of cruelty and a ray of hope.
The faint sounds of the Magrib Azaan fades away into oblivion.
So does a few other insignificant lives.
Farah Tasneem Tracy
She wore her weapon of choice around her torso
A doomed corset of destruction hugging her fragile bones.
She looked across the street at the cafe- her nemesis, her assignment, her destiny.
A pack of office-returning shiny faces wearing shiny clothes enter into the café-
Laughing, talking as though this were a perfectly happy place;
And not the scarred, incomplete, unidentifiable piece of land
that spawned violence and bloodshed around the seasons.
She saw a little boy walk into the café with his father.
The boy’s face became the face of her little brother- her favorite companion.
Who was still smiling when they came- the nameless, faceless soldiers.
They shot her brother first and then her father.
She tasted fear in her dry mouth.
But this is revenge, she thought boldly.
She imagined the big explosion
Gray smoke, the smell of burnt skin
Pieces of hot human flesh- men, women, children- mingled in a death mess.
She thought of the smaller explosion.
The one inside her head.
Rage, despair, and hopelessness, causing havoc with her sense of reason and logic.
She imagined her own body blown to bits and pieces
Her pride- her beautiful, dark hair neatly tucked inside her scarf- charred and brittle.
She will die the death of a martyr, she thought valiantly.
A death many have died before her
And many will die after her.
Her soul will resurrect and inhabit the mind and body
Of another young avenging fellow countryman.
Countryman- inhabitants of a country that exists in their minds and hearts only.
They country that is their dream.
A small voice inside her regrets- but you have only lived so few springs.
But can you experience spring in Hell?, she asked back.
NO, you cannot.
I will leave one hell for another for in life heaven didn’t find me
And in death I won’t find heaven.
But the souls of the martyrs will celebrate the day our beloved motherland turns into heaven.
She crossed the street with proud, confident steps.
Her still eyes resolute- each second getting closer and closer to death.
Closer to end of cruelty and a ray of hope.
The faint sounds of the Magrib Azaan fades away into oblivion.
So does a few other insignificant lives.
