easter, 2009
as i lie still
in an unquiet rest,
the bright brusque midday sun
descending into a dull glow,
the fluted tones of 'it's a
small world after all', drifting through
the yellowed pane, breaks
into my reverie, to conclude on
a dying note, the cheery tune,
and i refuse
once more
to write of war torn limbs, bodies
scattered far apart, scarred foetuses, and
the white flag, burning in the
whiter sun, held aloft by a fleeing
refugee, in the desert sand;
i can write only
of my own otherness and
the survival of a song, drafting
words of fleeting fancy on the
canvas of my thought.
i refuse to sing any requiem
for me and my own.
by sumathy