Their Songs

Ronny Noor

Shake, oh grave;

my wailing voice

is the autumn wind.

– Basho

I know a craven Mir Jafar

when I see one, pleading

with me softly, sweetly,

like a dear friend

to shake off the past

as if I were a newborn.

But I am who I am for that

eerie night in March

when homes collapsed

and the heavens cried

in the manic tank fires

of Yahya's henchmen,

who wished to paint our land

red with Bengali blood.

Buried lives tell no tales;

but I know the ones who died –

fathers and mothers,

brothers and sisters –

for no fault of their own

but for seeking a better life.

Those gunshots amidst screams

haunted me for nine months:

endless nights of horrid dreams

seared deep in my heart.

They live in my songs

to sing of that March night –

we must live in freedom

to honor the fallen lives.

The poet is a Professor of English

at the University of Texas Rio

Grande Valley, USA.