What will matter most
Won’t be matter
When the ride expires
What we leave behind is––
What will matter most
Won’t be matter
When the ride expires
What we leave behind is––
I want to write
But I’m trapped
My ego wants to construct something profound
A piece which adheres to all the rules
And I forget what I really want to say
I neglect how I really feel.
I yearn for the past,
Like a burnt forest, forever colourless.
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
If I were a kitten
the world would be smitten
but I am a seven year old war-bitten
little honey-eyed girl
Locked up in detention.
Original Artwork by MARIAM SAWIRES
I turn, bidding to see life, and whenever I do
I see pain and poverty, hurt and hunger, labour and liquidation
But instead, I adore but these, infinite sensations
I like to descry a wildflower, gentle
I have never seen a flower give birth
But I have seen mothers separated from their offspring
In Spring
I like to touch the lilies and feel their coarse and supple silk
I have never seen a flower make love
But I have seen lovers hung from ropes, forgotten
In Autumn
I like to taste the rainwater left on the bracts overnight
I have never seen a flower so thirsty, it begs to die
But I have seen children ripped by a sniper’s tender bullet and sinter
In Winter
I like to listen to the soft wedding bell melodies created by the petals as they marry the grass
I have never seen snow bury a flower in cold blood
But I have seen powder detonate and deliberately rob the soul of a lover
From next Summer:
I will turn and accept life is full of these unfair stories.
I wish it weren’t like this.
But I’ve learnt these injustices harden my flower.
Osamah is 19, and his main aim during Ashura, a ten-day Islamic ritual, is to score the chat-room nickname of Houda, the girl whose long eyelashes feed his new obsession.
Listed as iTunes Best Podcast in 2015.
