We watch tyrants,
Build pyramids from the dead,
Where revolutions fell into mourning songs.
Blood seeps from the seams of cities,
And there is no thread left,
To work between these wounds.
The Nile carries martyrs,
Her arms like burial shrouds,
Cradling those we could not lay to rest.
As I reached for your name,
My fingers fell across heartstrings,
Reminiscent of your laughter.
The life that once tumbled through you,
Now strums at these veins,
Sorrow reverberates against chambers,
Laying siege to organs,
Too heavy to turn away, now..
They welcome prayer with gunshots,
Bullets fall into flesh,
Repeatedly ruptured by injustice.
Last breaths caress wounds,
Urging the veins to seal,
Across a lacerated arm,
Inscribed with the numbers of loved ones.
These massacres leave no room for names,
Bloodstained cheeks have no faces,
The dead, have hearts that don’t beat,
But our hearts are heavy,
With the weight of this tragedy.
Words, echo from the blood,
Smeared across Egyptian streets.
How many springs must pass,
Leaving Autumn to mourn,
Over the dead bodies,
Of our children?