By Ahmed Latif
The people, condemned before the revolution commenced,
Perched on their balconies watched the city burn all around them.
Blood drips from the altar and floods the sinfully silent streets.
Pillowy pillars of smoke dampen the smell of sunrise.
The air tastes of a bitter destruction garnished with a virulent guilt.
The pale skies grow frail and despondent.
The innocent casualty and the innocuous convict.
Stand as witnesses in the show trial of our time.
Trap the truth, it will set you free and take your place in this prison.
The city burns while a frosty fire sings in our veins.
For a residual of an acorn we enslaved and paraded our nature.
For a drop of water we sold the river.
Luck and convenience are wards of the state.
A lexicon of valour uttered as a pretence of a polite conversation.
Scars taught not to talk, lest they remind us of the truths we buried.
Hope mounts an escape in bursts of colour at sunset.
A future forgotten and a past purged by a cantankerous pride.
Redemption and revolution are synonyms we refuse to learn.
There is no oracle bemoaning the darkness and light.
There is no exoneration for ethics or a denunciation of man.
There is only a lullaby to those drowning in their silence.