This Land Of Ours

In this land of ours

they would rather silence us

so perhaps this will be no more than

half a poem; but let me tell you

what happens in this land of ours:

In this land of ours

poets recite misery

politicians recite poetry

and the people recite

the names of politicians

and never poetry.

In this land of ours

poets drown

flapping their little tails

dying of thirst

lost fish on our pavements

in this land of ours

intact fingernails a luxury

a generation ago

the next generation too, perhaps:

in this land of ours

there used to be

the fascist

the communist

and the appropriate

now our communists are nearly extinct

and mostly they adapt fascism

in its various forms

and people are trampled on

in this race to be appropriate

in this land of ours

burning hearts are placed

within baglamas and lauds

and hummingbird fingers

can keep pace with heartbeats

but also in this land of ours

brains are burned—

their smoke and their screams rise

and thus our hearts

are blackened and choked

so in this land of ours

women are our women

daughters all our daughters

their virtuousness ever holy, ever in question, ever all ours’ to protect

from each others’ sons—

oh and in this land of ours

our beds are not covered with sheets

                                                 or rosebuds

                                                 or couples of all sorts making love

but with homophobia

and skeletons

and skeletons of words of love

and wives grown fat

and husbands grown sweaty

and with bills unpaid

or at best with content snores

and bloodshot eyes

and in this land of ours

it is always too late

the hours

stop not for us

-maybe for others-

and now all we can touch

is a little humid space left behind

and all we can taste

is an empire long gone

in this land of ours

no thank you, we are

quite comfortable waiting and waiting

in this land of ours

rivers flow

and men die of thirst

because we are to learn the names of rivers

(in one language and intent, mind you)

and not carry water buckets

in this country of ours

they are erecting walls on

our doorsteps

and windowsills

our birds

and our few forests

our truths

and on our mothers

and on our faiths

in this land of ours, friends,

they make gravestones of our youths

slaughterhouses of our fields

leaden soldiers of our greatest hopes

bludgeons of our holy books

teardrops of our stars

and handcuffs of our crescent.

In this land of ours

I do not matter

nor any of the others

who are doing no better than me.