The whirring

"What will come out of all this?"

The day starts with the devil flying overhead,

the whirring of its wings piercing the light,

Burning my ears;

A sky not so still,

Look out for the death coming out of the black clouds

The heat thickens,

The blood irrigation sickens the soil

The farmers' plants grow over his body as the ants take shelter

In the holes of his torso carved out by the metal shards

What are we now, if not the person we see in still water?

What do you see in the floating redness? Beyond the murk?

Anger?

Hatred?

Fear.

My hands won't even move when the tap water scalds it

My eyes aren't fixed anywhere in this fluctuating blur

My foot is over a flower I've planted. What will come out of all of this? This night that ends with the clockwork of a disposable pillow,

And the restless turning of the diseased for a change of temperature Something to quicken the way the wheel in my mind spins

Something to forget the way the night swallows our sweat

Someone gets muffled when the owls take flight in silence

When the world eats another cold body. The night ends

Eventually, but this turbulence is constant. So constant.

I'm looking straight at the blooming sun

From the corner of my house, all while I feel a monster

Outside my door. I'm looking at the light that brightens a prison.

Something faint, yet warm. Resilient. Brave.

Something that catches onto me and tells me to believe

Something to lie to, lies that await to emerge from the next dawn, uncountable in number, Undefeatable

Something,

Anything,

That makes us feel safer in our body than we are.

Shaikh Sabik Kamal exists. Ask him stuff at [email protected].