A Poem
By Akash Ali
Sisters and brothers at the mercy of the seven oceans.
When Qabil killed,
the earth’s new-born eyes must have come alive
to scream.
The heaven must have
attempted to hang itself
against the hell’s apple tree.
If I am about to drown, will the ocean
spit me out? The asylum seekers’ bodies
are somewhere
not so deep down;
looking up at your private
yacht, foaming at its mouth.
Now here I am giving a helping hand
at this sanctuary.
Beautiful brown neighbours
of my motherland;
we have entangled roots but
tongues I can’t speak.
But the folds of frustration
on your forehead
speak loud enough,
your story makes the room go numb.
Forced to leave behind
the family jewels,
the storm threw you
to a foreign land
that is too barren to grow
any kindness.
And I know that miracles
do exist, but tonight
nothing except the reminder of your
washed up crib
is coming our way.
All I can do is pray
that the tired aging earth can smile
one last time,
at our attempts to hold each other.
Together we
dig our fingers
into a plate of biryani,
google translating our way through,
at the waiting room
of the sanctuary.
