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Terror

Red Bosphorus


Every part of me aches.Racked by a nameless fever or rage, despair, hopelessness.

I was infected by tears, mutilated bodies, lives torn asunder and ashes of hope.

Hope that were dashed against walls by terror, guns, knives, bombs.

I look at you gasping for breath now, clutching , grasping for composure and it breaks my heart.

I walked your cobbled streets, walking to nowhere, breathing in the industriousness and determination of those fishermen selling hamsi every day. Served with just the right drizzle of salt and smiles.

My heart rose and fell with the tides of the Bosphorous.

My eyes glazed with wonder as they swallowed the grand mosques and minarets dotting your Crimson skies

How my aching feet danced away with those little childrenin the streets of Grand Bazaar.

Rows upon rows of twinkling chandelier studded lanes lighting up sparkles of hope.

My hands are now still. Sometimes wringing in wretched frustration, sometimes in prayer.

Look what they have done to you my poor darling.

Those warm smiles , embraces and chatter have dissolved into tears and are flowing away, turning your shores red.

Let our prayers, memories and love be the raincoat that shields you from this storm of hate.

Let them lash, let them rage and spew hatred outside.

They will never get to your golden soul, but one day the world will get to them. And they will have nowhere to hide.

Blindsight

She sat in a little white chair in a corner of the waiting room.
A slight smile playing on her lips, while most other faces wore masks of gloom.
“What’s so funny?! You’re blind!”
Some frustrated soul barked as she merrily twiddled her thumb.
“Pulling a long face won’t make my wait shorter, so why be glum?”
Instinctively my own drooping mouth lifted mildly to the sky.
Isn’t it easy to feel sorry for oneself, repeating that eternal question, ‘Why me? Oh why?!’

Some people are blind by birth, some lose their vision along the way.
The most dangerous affliction, where you have the sight,
But you refuse to see things any other way.

A hopping bird, a toddlers toothy grin, the setting sun, fiery autumn leaves.
My heart bleeds for the miracles that her eyes will never see.
But the quiet resolve of her withered shoulders, testament to all that she has witnessed.
Probably more than you and me.

Then I think of the world today and the horrors it brings.
Atrocities seen each day, terror tearing lives apart. Humanity lost.
These monstrosities her eyes will be spared.
Sometimes I think it’s just better to be blind, and sit smiling in a little white chair.

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