Nightmares, long dead,
Peer through the shattered panes of the
Window of the present.
The dead of the south, killed on the streets,
With bullet riddled skulls,
Walk once again, through an endless night,
And those of the north drowned in deluges of fire
When rains of steel drench their unforgiving earth,
Gaze through the shards of glass empty eyed;
As slaughtering armies, prowl under starless skies,
Upholding sovereignity
With bloodsoaken hands.
Our past is the last breath of those,
Countless generations entombed
Without seeing the day of freedom.
But who is to say
That even this July a breath of summers hope, would not
Steal through the shattered panes of the window of the present.

The only sound, after the first swish of a leaf
Falling to the ground,
And the second,
Could well be the sound of silence.
Light is not drowned in darkness,
It is merely unseen,
In the darkness of a dungeon, the one lifegiving dream will be
Of sunlight.
Silence is but the quietness of
Unheard thunder...
So, even for an instant, is silence not the most terrible voice
Raised against a deafening clamour
Of coarse and empty chatter and strident platitude

Who would wonder
What the bedroom of an exile
looks like?
It is a domaine of
eternal twilight
from which, friendship’s laughter and company
long banished, will not witness
the death of hopes and dreams, long held dear
In the silence of solitude.
yet, even such a cell
may still have
a window, opening out
into the world...
On an autumn’s eve, a bird
lost, might peck at the glass of it’s panes
and turn back,
in despair.
On winter nights, a snowflake or two
On their descent from the skies dark slopes
might brave tapping on it
to make their presence felt.
On a sunlight afternoon
a blue and cloudless summers sky
might look deep into the exile’s heart
an azure mirror held out into the world.
And may be that, the last forlorn hopes,
of coming to you,
shatter on the unforgiving glass
die bleeding on the floor.