We have the grand eloquence of
Lighting the fire in our hearths
From the burning pits, they call, hunger of others
Others who aren’t my brothers
Everyday I wake up to a procession
In honour of the dead of the day, the first
The fire in him died out, how sad, the depression!
Though my house, for fire, shall never thirst
In idleness prized, I have written long accounts of tragedy
Of a war hero, of a pining heroine and of vanity
By the candlelight, night after night
Candlelight carved out of those other’s last sight.
There is but one small complaint, I must admit
The other’s processions earlier were few and silent
Now, through midnights till midnights, the other’s commit
To a prayer of wailing and cries of avowed violence.
Ignoring, I write another account of a king who slept badly
Who was in love with summers, and madly
Satisfied, I go to sleep and the music returns
This time louder, threatening and I twist and turn
Today, I dread to try to sleep
I know today, they’ll breach the barrier
I know today, they’ll steal their fire
Fire fed off of their hunger
Light stole off of their sight
Their procession today carries no dead
This lacking, they intend to fill
, I go to bed
And I wait, anytime now, blink and I’m their kill.
Now my funeral, a burning pyre
Their baecon of victory
And I’ll dissipate to the sky, dying twice for fire
A threat to the world, a decree.
Inspired by a book read a year ago, ‘Hunger’ By Knut Hamson, though the book is of an another misery altogether, this rendering is of a misery that I see, no different from a very desperate attempt at keeping dignity intact, as is the motto of every person I have met, in these five years of conscious note taking.