Author Information
Visiting home
The dictator and his horde have,
Looted and gone abroad
They ruled for a decade
*
The library opens from eight to four
I ride on my bike
Staring past the entrance door
Serried rows of books
The scent of paper and ink
The grand choir of written words
Mesmerizing, calm,
Peaceful
I remember my father, late from work
I would pick him from the bus station
Saving him the long walk home
He would blame the usual delays
Traffic, chaos of awkward passengers,
“I was worried about you’
‘Why’? I am fine”
Let’s have some soup before we get home
It will make you feel better
We sit on wooden benches, by the vendor’s cart
Sipping, talking about his day
While gaslight lantern gently fades away . . . . .
*
I am covering casualty
Holding a dying man’s hand
His eyes plead to my helplessness
A suicide bomber’s misguided revenge plan
I sit down, head held in despair
75 killed, countless injured, scarred for life
Better dead than alive
We are targets of the illegitimacy
Of someone else’s war on terror
They name those lost in attack
But forget they were
Fathers, brothers’ sons and daughters
Disregard those left behind to mourn
And finally the promises
Broken, fragmented unfulfilled
So-called democracy now prevails
Hanging by the skin of its teeth
In anarchy’s ocean the country sails
*
I run between the library, the bus stop
And the soup vendor
Trying to find where
We lost
Our way
