Somebody in my mind told me,
It is the poets who teach the rain to grow,
But San’aa when did rain begin to grow?
She answers – the beginning never ended,
It grows every time another soul leaves,
It multiplies and fills the vast spaces,
Between us – all,
It engulfs the emptiness,
We all allow it to impose itself upon us,
Because its soothing embrace,
Fills our hearts,
With the will to continue,
As the poets weave strength in their verse.
We live in lands stained crimson,
With the blood of empowered and passionate souls,
Is a death for freedom a tale of the romance,
Between the oppressed and his dearest love?
I live, we all live, under the boots of capitalists,
Who cut our veins at every given opportunity,
With weapons fit for massacres,
Not just on the plains of the holy lands,
But in the dying hearts of un-holy lands,
Emotion connects us all,
Our drive to resist- unending,
Our hearts unwavering against relentless oppression,
Because these struggles bear pain,
Pain bears the potential, to cause a monsoon,
And that is when the poets come out to sing.
I feel like an outsider, because my broken limbs,
Are not your scarred hearts,
Because my cityscape, lacks your seas and mountains,
Because my memory isn’t encrypted, in shades of red,
So I write words trying to create a storm,
A hurricane in the minds of the dead,
Maybe it will wake them from sleep,
But I feel the algorithms in mind are all wrong,
And this feels like the greatest betrayal,
So – I rain,
I rain like a poet,
Attempting to make the monsoon come early today,
Maybe it will redeem me from betrayal,
Or break my limbs like it broke yours..
Maybe in it – I will reach you.