Fingers that could never,
The stench of the dead,
Searched familiarity, amidst corpses,
Lifeless limbs caught breath and tears,
A final trace of warmth,
Between lips already sealed..
Beating hearts sprawled,
Across those who beat no more,
Intimacy should not sound,
Like this.

Mourning songs echo,
Between the living and the dead,
The circle of life became victim,
To collateral damage,
They call this war,
Not genocide,
But conflict,
Tie it in threads of English words,
From English tongues that cannot trace our language,
So they keep crushing,
Jackboots to soil,
Jackboots to earth,
Jackboots to the faces of our dead,
Intimacy should not taste,
Like this.

How many streams of crimson,
Have seeped from artery to earth?
The motherlands would scream,
If she could speak,
The silences as she inhaled,
Would shake the land beneath you,
The earth tearing away,
From falling knees,
Because she is ashamed,
To meet you,
This is not the intimacy,
She wishes to feel.

My father’s tongue churns out 13 digit numbers,
Phone lines leave our house,
For exotic destinations,
Words leave hearts,
To meet phone lines,
That are already dead.
And I know heavy breaths,
That leave lungs across seas,
Like I know nothing else.
Because intimacy is the touch,
That traces my soul,
Just seconds,
His fingers trace checkpoints.

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