|
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Worries at a Hilltop Resort Words by Sofiul Azam QuailBellMagazine.com  I’m lying on a beach-style outdoor bench at a hilltop resort, enjoying the fresh air from all around and the warm sunshine at this time of winter even though I know bombs are falling like hail on some parts of the world and deaths are being recorded in destiny’s logbook. I’m holding my four-month-old daughter drooling and crawling on me while somewhere the legs of toddlers are already broken before they learn to toddle. My four-and-a-half year-old son is scampering here and there to catch dragonflies resting on the blades
of long unmown grass by the lake while his yearmates gather empty artillery shells for sale in local scrap markets because buying bare necessities are part of their struggle to keep heads above ruins. My wife is in the shower to wash off her drowsiness and the tiredness of travel while desperate mothers seek refuge for their kids-- their only hopes. My dreams of having a rest are gone, and here stalk my nightmares that are not wizen-faced witches in a bamboo-grove but diplomatic acrobatics, political dogfights and smear-campaigns: all these make humanity live on life support before it gets flatlined. Schizophrenics set loose across the globe say: bombs every now and then are necessities like food, the scarcity of which spells chaos, is it a disguiser’s cynosure? What will I do with a catcaller’s life of smut and booze or a parroter’s unuttered embargo on questions? How can I write poems and think of beauty alone? CommentsComments are closed.
|
