Writings

Sa'ir's poetry

Glass into paradise

An empty sphere,
A shell, a skin,
of the essence within,
Falls from the sky,
onto the virgin ground,
and shattered
into Infinite pieces.

So lost is the shell.
They remember.

Thus the story of glass,
finally, begins,
With sparks that bore flames,
they created iron monsters,
slaves to an illusive brilliance,
Later Lords of their lives.

They drew lines among themselves,
among their seedling fragments,
and saw no fit,
And left their home
a smoking landcape,
black and foreboding.

So lost is the skin.
They remember.

The playground has changed,
since the great eons,
into the Master's furnace.
As they have smelt,
and crafted their majestic beasts,
So with the flames, they melt,
and be shaped,
upon the greater Will.
Into a strange purity,
of form and substance,
alien to their forefathers.

So lost is the essence.
They remember.

A burning sword falls,
Ridhuan asks the broken,
do.you.know.god?
do.you.know.devil?
do.you.remember.the.fruit?

A frosted veil creeps,
Malik asks the broken,
is.there.god?
is.there.devil?
is.there.a.fruit?
(that you often blame)

One fragment raises a voice,
Deep and cold, resounding,
"No"
And the rest will follow.
Paradise opens, Glass will see,
A shell, a skin,
An empty sphere,
With the essence within.

They remembered.

I am phibian

The boy sat near the pond
his eyes placed onto a blue frog, swimming
that jumped onto a lilypad.

"What's the matter, little one?"
it asked in an English accent.
"I feel like a rose, pretty but wilting from sight,
I feel like a mule, carrying grain I cannot eat,
I feel like a pumpkin, waiting to be stewed."
he answered, dipping his feet into the pool.

"Lucky you," said the frog,
"At least you can think of those things."
and it leapt back into the water
leaving the boy smiling by himself.

The Caterpillar

Born I was, unbeautiful
On a majestic bed of green

marred by my need to consume voraciously,
wounds I inflict to sustain my unbeauty,

Armies of thin-bodied soldiers

in the righteous crusade, did kill my brothers,
carry their bodies to parade to their Queen and others,

Windbeating giants have speared and pecked

picking my sisters off the sacred land, in a mission,
to wipe out the destroyer of landscape perfection.

Born I was, unbeautiful
And suddenly feel a primal need

to build a house woven carefully of my own flesh,
no light nor shine will fall through the mesh,

The universe shows contempt for the unbeautiful

then I shall live with it no more,
within this prison I stay, forevermore.

Born I was, unbeautiful
My house is now my coffin

my shrivelled wings never used,
the sounds of the outside I simply refuse,

So I ignore the rising rot

after dreamed seasons of quiet shelter in a bend,
in the darkness, I am unbeautiful to the end.