You are caught in the clutches of one's own thoughts, akin to the vulnerability of a poet, the madness of an artist, the imagination of a novelist, and the creativity of a writer. Despite being confined with no visible escape, there is comfort in this suffocating modern clothes - the emperor's new clothes!
M🦋
#Myscribbles
~ From the archives 2021
Between two grassfields, with
a stream in the middle flowing
downward to the river of flowers, live
two pretty ladies of different colors, and different sizes, with
stretch marks here and there.
Of course, they are middle-aged!
Raped by eyes,
abused by words, they
live in a myriad of emotions:
love, lust, laughter,
desire, disgust, delight,
shame, sadness surprise
fear, anger, and anxiety.
Women, she is you!
She is your breasts.
~ From the archives 2021
You look in the mirror, And
you see,
The present,
Flaws on the skin,
Pimples on the cheeks,
Wrinkles on the lips,
Darkness under the eyes,
Grey hairs hither and thither,
Your reflection!
You don't see,
The past,
The places you've lived,
The people you've loved,
The mistakes you've made,
The hearts you've touched,
The moments you've laughed,
The times you've cried,
The courage you've shown,
The strength you've gained,
The kindness you've showered,
Either the blessed moments or
the blushed moments.
You are invisible!
Insomnia, my Romeo, and I, his Juliet,
Upon the balcony of my bedroom, whispers romantically,
Casting the moon as a flickering candle, causing the stars to blush, proclaiming
"Let’s talk; it is not day"
At 2,
I did something good
I bathed three chicks
helped them submerged
But, they died
.
At 6,
I did something good.
I kept fireflies in a glass Jar
Helped them to have a home
But, they gasped
.
At 10,
I did something good
I inserted a dog's tail into an iron pipe
helped him straighten it
But, he barked
At 16,
I did something good.
I encouraged a classmate copy my answers,
helped him write the exams
But, he failed.
At 20,
I did something good
I assisted a friend doing his tasks
Wrote his write-ups on ethics
But, he failed in ethics
At 24
I did something good
I helped a fascist win elections
stayed inside my comfort zone
But, democracy died the very day
At 28,
I did something good,
I helped someone alter history
Kept silence when he distorted truth
But, people were traumatised by the distorted history
At 29,
I am doing something good,
I am helping modern-day colonizers to colonize,
I sit in an alternative world, reading essays on de-colonialism.
But, history will haunt me forever
Found something I wrote in Feb 2018, when I was just 23 and not really into Facebook. It's like, "Shucks! What's this? What was I even saying?" But then, oh yeah, something is there, though, i dont know what's that "something"😃 Those were the days when I was prepping for MPhil entrance and jotting down random thoughts about the Dutch East India Company. Thus all the pages of the diary says about my blunt thoughts on the Dutch company and Kerala historiography. Some positive remarks are also there that says "Let's work for it rather than wishing and awaiting for the same." 😅
Good times!
Just posting what I scribbled on the diary 5 years ago as I feel, it's not that bad 😃
In my quest for truth, I buckled up and delved into thoughts, battling questions told and untold, only to fall into oblivion.
Oh, fallen in love?
Why did I fall?
Why did I fall in love?
Beware!
You can’t rise in love!
It's just 'fall' in love.
Oh, I don’t give a damn
What is love? I found no love in this world of materials, capitals, money, man, power, lies, binaries, and dualism. Can the world be freed from binaries? "Can the subaltern speak"? Is there any truth? Where is H(er)story? Who am I? Sheer madness!? Say, say, say!! You, educated and not enlightened highbrows, stand anxious and muddled amidst theories, actions, preaching, and practice. Slanted is the intelligentsia. Impartiality and objectivity? Oh, hypocrisy!
I can’t sleep, I can’t cry, I can’t laugh, I can’t smile. I stand in chaos amid episteme and existence, episteme and experience. Finally, I found multiple truths and multiple lies
When I slept the other day
Gasa was a shattered human puzzle,
crisscrossed with scars, and
debris lay disconnected like amputated limb
The streets were wounded veins, and
Structures were human skeletons
The city's heart pulsated irregularly, and
voice breathed like a wheezing patient
The landscape resembled a major wound with its peeled skin, and
Perishing children akin to heavy loss of human hair
When I woke up today
Gaza was an artist's bloody canvas,
a battlefield bereft of colours, and
broad brushstrokes merging with blue(s)
The Alleys resembles Paul Nash's The Menin Road, destroyed utterly and filled with shell holes.
The space is similar to Asger Jorn's stalingrad where bodies were buried in mass graves.
The bodies reminds me of the scattered body parts in Otto Dix's The war, as the hands in Gaza has their name on just to be identified after death
Cries of the Palestinian man near the debris SEEM linked to the muffled voice of the white-shirted, wide-eyed “martyr figure,” in Francisco de Goya's The third of May 1808
The sky is akin to Van Gogh's starry night, swirling and bluish, bearing many traumas and myriad of pain
The mothers in Gaza mirrors the bellowing bull in Picasso's Guernica or that terrified mother in Léon Cogniet's Massacre of Innocents
If I wake up tomorrow,
Gaza may echo a Discordant Lullaby,
akin to the ever-changing Torah.
Letters stand bare, devoid of vowels, punctuation absent, struggling to find meanings,
The white spaces amidst letters bear room to wander,
as they say ceasefire is temporary
There was a Balloon
in the soaring sky
afloat
inflated with Air, like
sunshine on a rainy day, or
laughter in a quite room
flying high, and
colors to celebrations
There is a balloon
in the drooping sky
Quite
deflated of air
hung like a wilted flower, or
weary as a shadow at dusk
lying on the floor, and
colours faded
"No peeping eyes, no prying gaze," I oft declare.
And then, in my ninth year and now,
at twenty-nine,
I trespassed into the realms of poets and writers, where
tales unfurl, both intimate and grand,
words linger, in lives forever spanned, and everything echoing through time, like a timeless art, sublime and prime.
In the quest to embrace and exalt my intrusion, I oft declare
"Her existence mirrors mine, and I am but a perfect reflection of her essence."
Nop! Every tale weaves its own tapestry, yet
in the intricate dance of narratives, shared threads gracefully entwine.
To know that, you'd have to go on a date to Mexico with Octavio Paz and share a reading of 'Life with the Wave' together. A blend of Surrealism and existentialism might greet you.
Yet, is it the biography of your mother or mine? "No," I say, "she isn't that undulating wave."
Yet every wave, alas, harbors water within its embrace.
Oh, Paz wasn't the first wordsmith I went on a date with.
I've been on multiple dates, but believe me, one-night stands have never been in the picture.
she, he, them, that, x, and xx,
from Nairobi's glow to Massachusetts's snow.
Seventeen to seventy,
Many known, and others unknown.
Some light, pale white and many olive, moderate brown,
echoing French whispers and Yiddish tales.
Alas! my neighbor may cast judgment with a bitter pitch,
Label me a "slut" or "bitch," in their narrow niche.
For I've courted myriad souls, and slept off, often, in their poetic terrain.
Dating Vikram Seth was a test, a poetic test, as verses from "All You Who Sleep Tonight" graced the air.
Amidst "Lithuania: Question and Answer," a tale unfolded - of a woman in Kovno who was raped by Germans, and was branded on her arm as a "whore for Hitler's troops."
Tears eclipsed the joy of sausage-laden pizza and steaming cappuccino that adorned our melancholic night.
Amidst 'conversations about home' with Dalia Elhassan and Warsan Shire,
our multiple dates made me a wanderer in woe, when warsan' recited her poem,
"truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his name, or his manhood in my mouth."
In hushed contemplation, I
held my words and tears, trying to follow contemporary etiquettes.
In the tender company of Sylvia Plath, my longtime muse,
I yearned to ask her,
why she chose to bake her head within the oven.
Yet, within the verses of her 'Lady Lazarus', the answer unfolded in poetic prose.
Tonight, I may have a fling with Maya Angelou, and
may get the chance to listen her reciting 'Still I Rise.'
Weary from poetic dates, I
yearn to ask her how did she rise
"Out of the huts of history's shame" and "up from a past that's rooted in pain."
Oh my neighbour, refrain from labeling me a slut or strumpet,
For I've courted myriad souls, and slept off, often, in their poetic terrain.
~ When I was 26, and as I approach 29.
I used to read Emily Dickinson particularly finding fascination in her poem "I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody too?." Reciting the verses became a ritual, each time exploring varied meanings. I even entertained the notion of embracing the identity of a nobody, romantically weaving thoughts of not being a somebody. Yet, I couldn't help but wonder if such musings were born from the complexities of our modern existence, perhaps even hinting at a state of introspective contemplation akin to a schizophrenic episode. A schizophrenic state of being that modernity has offered? In the pages of my diary, I penned down these reflections (when I was 26), a dance between the allure of being a nobody and the complexities of our contemporary world.
"No grandeur required, no extravagant facade
No need to stand out in a crowded crowd
No need to be odd
To be nobody or not to be somebody,
a timeless art you see."
As I approach my 29th birthday, my perspective has evolved. The concept of being a "nobody," detached from various aspects, prompts contemplation. It raises the question of who can afford the luxury of being a nobody, devoid of many concerns. Living as a nobody seems to demand a certain privilege and capital, highlighting the complexities of being anonymous. This raises questions about the inherent socio-economic factors that influence one's ability to lead a life unconstrained by external pressures. The ease of being a nobody is intricately tied to the resources and opportunities one possesses, shedding light on the complex interplay between identity, privilege, and societal expectations.
Let me rephrase Now.
I’m Somebody! Who are you?
Are you – Somebody – too?
Opening up about depression can be challenging. I began grappling with persistent depressive disorder at 22, that is since 2017, post my master's degree. Along with the struggles, this experience has been enlightening. It taught me to be a compassionate listener, attuned to others' emotions, and to avoid romanticizing aspects of life.
'Encouraging' someone grappling with clinical depression to overcome their insecurities, or read books or stay outside, or grasp/understand their self-identity, or confess their sin, or act normal or....................can be a complex task, as normalcy is highly subjective. Tell me, How can an individual with a quivering heart, struggling to rise from their bed, find the strength to read or venture outside? Tell me, what is normal?? (I dont want to be philosophical at this juncture) It's important to recognize the impact words can have, understanding that such suggestions might inadvertently lead to a whirlwind of emotions and bring them back to square one.
This post brings happiness if it helps someone alter their perspectives. Years of medication and therapy, coupled with substantial unlearning, have shaped my daily survival. I am doing it beautifully. Yet, a single word from you can easily set a person into a loop. I recognize that not everyone has the privilege to unlearn societal conditioning. My awareness quite obviously stems from the luxuries and privileges, and social and cultural capital I possess, and I understand that such exposure isn't accessible to everyone.
But, try to be sensitive. Please be mindful of each other's feelings and emotions, recognizing the impact your words can have on someone. Opening up and being vulnerable requires considerable energy and isn't an easy process.
Just posting a poem that I scribbled years back🙂
The sun shines above my head,
Shivering and shaking, I feel cold.
The rain lashes down,
Sweating like a pig, I feel hot.
The boss gives a loud laugh,
The chest tightens, I feel afraid.
The phone rings,
Anxiety surges up, I feel nervous.
The world sleeps at night,
Looking at the sky, I am awake.
Wearing blue glass,
Tears flow, I feel blue.
Standing in the middle of a crowd,
Faking a smile, I feel lonely.
Sitting in the virtual world, A marketplace of ideas, I feel empty.
Then, you ask me, "What's up?"
"I am fine! And how about you?"
An acquaintance, facing spatial marginalization bereft of social and cultural capital, once shared, "I deliberately address most in academic circles by their names, even avoiding titles like chechi, as it ensures seamless conversations." In my interactions with a master's student from two years ago, who I had only taught (shared not taught) a single Dutch history class with, there was a consistent use of my name, and our exchanges that continued even after the lecture were marked by a sense of dignity.Others, burdened by the title 'chechie' seemed to carry the weight of social hierarchy and invisible power. The subtle power dynamics at play can be invisible or its internal force is not revealed, yet potent, so it can subjugate us, thus underscoring the need for continuous resistance and dissent.
In Foucault's examination of Jeremy Bentham's Panopticon, a architectural construct featuring a central tower facilitating observation of every enclosed cell, the paradox of visibility unfolds. While each individual is subject to scrutiny, communication between occupants and overseers, as well as among prisoners themselves, is rendered imperceptible—creating a condition of invisibility. The collective entity dissipates, as the Panopticon instills a pervasive awareness of constant visibility, thereby sustaining the efficacy of power. Bentham, prescribing that power should manifest as visible yet elusive, orchestrates a scenario wherein the prisoner, perpetually observable, remains uncertain about the source of surveillance, epitomizing the synthesis of seen and unseen dynamics.
Thus, doing dissent/ engaging in dissent is crucial. Must we continue to be prisoners of societal constructs?
PS: The write-up stems from the conversations that took place with Athira K Chandrababu the other day in Room No. 47 of Poorna Hostel at Sree Sankaracharya University.
~ Who is including whom?
The conceptual framework of inclusion, as opposed to equity, necessities a nuanced understanding as an ideological construct. In practical implementation, it runs the risk of inadvertently perpetuating systemic subjugation of marginalized factions within societal structures or fabric. Despite its apparent simplicity, the application of inclusion, comparable to the metaphorical Emperor's new clothes (something is widely accepted or praised despite being nonexistent or deceptive/turning a blind eye) requires scrutiny when the
inclusion of 'others' is contingent upon the benevolence and convenience of a select few.
'New' Caledonia, 'New' Zealand, 'New' England: Colonialist and capitalist vocabulary
The semantic nuances of the terminology 'new' and its pragmatic connotations, whether in the context of new order, new approach, new world, new day or new methodology has to be reread. Frequently associated with expansive aspirations of utilization, proliferation, augmentation, clearance, and reclamation, this usage necessitates a discerning scrutiny of the colonial and capitalist ethos underpinning notions of progress/development/improvement/perfection.
I consistently harbor polemical and skeptical sentiments towards the notion of prospective positivity or potential possibility it purports to impart, akin to turning a blind eye.
By examining world map (have a look at it), one can observe a commonality in places prefixed with 'new' – a pattern reflecting the outright erasure of indigenous livelihoods and histories, replaced by a notion of something deemed 'new.'
How do you perceive the colonial concept of "new" in the context of New Zealand or New england per se? 'Resources' were something to be utilized and enhanced? Unaltered land was considered wild and waste if not used or cultivated? Outright erasure of eco-system to bring in something 'new'? Analogous to the fascist practice of renaming, or reminiscent of colonial paternalism aimed at civilizing the 'other'? Or is the perception that nature is inherently inert, subject to human control, and exploitable for the betterment of human well-being? A colonial endeavor aimed to elucidate the natural history of the colonies as a means to resurrect the purportedly diminished resource potential of the Earth, attributed to the primal sin of Adam? (This final question is derived from a paper authored by Pranav M).
When 'newness' itself is an illution or a maya, what viable alternatives exist for existence if not through the pursuit of 'new'?
Adding a poem by Lord Tennyson
"To shape and use. Arise and fly
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;
Move upward, working out the beast,
And let the ape and tiger die."
PS: I was reading Amitav Gosh.
History may save us. But, can history save students of history?
Is it an appropriate designation for me to be acknowledged as a student of history? In the course of my research, specifically delving into colonial encounters in Asia, I frequently find myself engrossed in a sphere of imagination wherein a dynamic interplay unfolds between imaginative frameworks and historical sources. This historical imagination enables me to intricately reconstruct vivid images, ideas, and concepts intricately linked to the occurrences and prevalent ideologies of the past (Refer to Collingwood to read about historical imagination)
While engrossed in a book by Amitav Ghosh, I consistently find myself drawn into this imaginative space. While visualising the moment when a lamp fell on an April night in 1621 (Chapter 1) and picturing Dutch colonial officials ruthlessly slaughtering the indigenous Bandanese elders for doing dissent (chapter 2), I could almost hear the echoes of their plea, "Sirs, have you no mercy then?" to Callenbacker before beheading 44 Bandanese elders and later throwing them into a nearby well.
Hence, I pose these questions. Do historians grapple with substantial emotional traumas stemming from the inherent nature of their research? Do they carry a weight of trauma associated with delving into the profound depths of historical inquiry?
Over the past week, I connected with numerous people, both face-to-face and virtually. A common thread woven through these conversations was the poignant notion that shedding tears is a luxury. In a heartfelt, in-person conversation with a friend just yesterday, he confided, "I find it impossible to cry." A few days earlier, as I anxiously knocked on a friend's hostel room door, prompted by her request for my psychiatrist's contact, she revealed, "It's been years since I last cried." Even during a late-night conversation this week, another friend bravely shared her struggle with the inability to express tears. Indeed, as Sylvia Plath poignantly captures, "I yearn to weep. Yet, I find myself laughing, and my lipstick marks a crimson stain, resembling a bloodied crescent moon atop the beer can." The echo of unshed tears resounds, painting a portrait of emotions that words alone may struggle to fully convey.
In 2021, I remember the profound silence within and outside when my father passed away—I didnt cry or I couldn't. And on thirtieth day a wave of panic attack hit me. Attempts to weep were futile; no sound came out. Then, years later, in the midst of the road, a professor's concern when she asked me "What happened? you seem disillusioned" broke my emotional dam. Last week, tears streamed down my face at Aluva metro station as my sister arrived from Banglore to pick me up. Since then, I've found myself shedding tears frequently, making me appear vulnerable and perhaps a bit wiered to others. Watching Daya Bai's act on Eldosulfan Victims, last month, stirred deep emotions within me, leaving me feeling intensely fragile in the midst of the audience. Though I felt a twinge of regret for displaying my emotions so openly, the fragility in those moments unveils strength. I often ponder why reading fiction has the power to evoke such strong feelings within me. It is because you can feel it now and when you feel it, you feel it a little too much. It's as if the delicate threads of emotion weave through me, making me both tender and resilient. I find certain kind of charm and profound beauty in those who earnestly say, "Just cry. Just cry. Just cry as much as you want" It carries a sense of liberation, a precious indulgence.But, I acknowledge that it is indeed a luxury. So, let's entice and encourage people to pour out their emotions freely rather than insisting them not to cry, inviting them to release and find solace in the therapeutic act of shedding tears endlessly.
I hope these conversations are helpful so far
PS: Darwin's theory - The Survival of the fittest - doesnt make much sense now.
I experience a rush of excitement when someone eloquently expresses ideas in Malayalam. However, an acquaintance once questioned the significance of English, asserting that English doesn't hold much importance. This made me reflect on my own journey in learning English. I vividly recall my initial struggles, from deciphering the first English word to grappling with the meanings of english poems (Poems fascinate me a lot) and attempting to understand simple stories.Upon watching Harry Potter for the first time, I enjoyed the movie but couldn't comprehend much. I was utterly perplexed, a gap I later bridged by reading the entire volumes. I recall my early struggles with constructing sentences, constantly questioning whether to use "is" or "was" and figuring out the placement of "being" and "been." I tended to overthink, especially late at night, fixating on a single grammatical error.
Transitioning from a Kerala government school to St. Teresa's College for a bachelor's degree in history was challenging even though I had a 'good' academic record. I found it tough to keep up with what teachers conveyed on the introduction day, and the sight of girls effortlessly conversing in English left me feeling intimidated. This new cultural landscape was unfamiliar and somewhat daunting. My time in a French class, spanning two long years, was particularly challenging. Surrounded by students from English literature, communicative English, and more, I occasionally found myself sweating like a pig. This discomfort led me to occasionally skip classes.
Thoughout my MPhil journey and beyond, and after Joining PhD, I came across numerous students, researchers, and even teachers struggling to articulate their excellent arguments effectively. I have seen people receiving significant praise primarily for their proficiency in English. A colleague from our Malayalam department expressed a desire to pursue studies abroad but lamented how the English language posed a barrier to his mobility. Another researcher friend would deliberately converse with me in English, seeking correction for grammatical errors. During my time at JNU, a friend enthusiastically participated in various campus programs with the hope that it would enhance his English skills. Next is the challenge faced by a colleague while articulating his thoughts in an Assistant Professor interview at a university outside Kerala.
It may not resonate with those who learned "A, B, C, D" in their LKG and UKG. It may not hold much meaning for those privileged enough to effortlessly write a thesis/proposal. It may not make sense to individuals who can express themselves simply in English. It may not click with those who can effortlessly understand an English movie on the first watch. It may not align with the experiences of those who............
Folks, your intense romanticization "English doesn't matter much, but what matters is..." stems from your privileges and luxuries. Whether you become a philosopher or delve into indepth meaning, sometimes it all comes from having the privilege to do so.
As moonlight caresses my weary eyes, Insomnia's embrace, a muse in disguise.
For three long nights, its grip holds tight,
Unleashing creativity in the dark of night.
Through endless pages, my thoughts take flight,
Words spill forth, like stars in the twilight.
Art and music, born from depths within,
In this dance with sleeplessness, I begin.
Amidst a month of melancholy's shroud,
A hidden strength, like a blossom, allowed.
This strange beauty, woven through the night,
In embracing insomnia, I find my light.
M🦋
Life is a labyrinth of mirrors, or a
Kaleidoscope, where
I, you, and we may be mere reflections, or an illusion, where
Perceptions dance like fireflies, and
the essence hides like a diamond buried deep.
Felt but elusive, or
invisible but present, like wind, the invisible artist of the skies, or time
a dancer of the land.
M🦋
Not for jewels from the stars, I sigh,
Nor pearls from ocean's keep
Not for treasures in the peaks, I cry,
Nor gold from beneath the sky.
Transient riches, I'll defy.
Affluence's apeal, I'll pass it by,
No grand abode, I'll seek
Nor a draught of ale, I'll yearn
Plenty's draw, I'll let go
Tempting sensuality, I'll withdraw
Roaming for justice, I choke back tears
In quest of dignity, I swell up with agony
Chasing for rights, I get a lump in my throat
Seeking for peace, I shake with suffering
Doing dissent, I tremble with anger
O Lord, the only Begotten son of God,
In pursuit of your mercy, I shall wander
Cradle my head on your arms
Bear me upon your shoulders
In your love, I find refuge
I doth revel in the joy of love.
In thy beauty, I find great joy.
Thou, the only Begotten son of God, O lord
Bear me upon thy shoulders
In thy love, I find my refuge
The flames of thy love dost scorch me
Cradle my head in thine left arm, whilst thou enfold me with the other arm.
Thou outshine the sheeny sun, and thy fragrance exceeds that of attar of roses.
Thy lips breathe life, yet I linger in
longing when met with kiss.
No grandeur required, no extravagant facade
No need to stand out in a crowded crowd
No need to be odd
To be nobody or not to be somebody,
a timeless art you see.
~M🦋
PS: The poet is aware of the fact that only a privileged person, like her, who holds the luxury of social and cultural capital is capable of being a nobody. No Dalit or black or queer or refugee is free to be a nobody. But, the poem is consequence of her current schizophrenic state of being, something that modernity offered.
Did the writings of Dostoevsky and Albert Camus evoke emotional responses within you, and if they did, how long did those emotional reactions last, spanning from three days, four days, or even a week? Why do the writings of Kafka and Plath evoke sensations akin to the experience of drowning in a vast sea? I acknowledge that these questions are highly subjective and can vary from person to person.
Last month, reading Vikram Seth's poetry collection 'All you who sleep tonight' moved me to tears, albeit in a distinct manner. Is it reasons of the 'other' or collective reasons or reasons of the individuals (personal) that lead more to sorrow? When the Lord's prayer encourages us to contemplate using "Our-us" instead of "Mine/you" binary, what lead us to place greater emphasis on individual factors/reasons? Can I, this time too, put blame on postmodernism and capitalism? Or Is this a condition deemed absurd, like Camus says? Tell me..
Well.. "Metamorphosis" had been gathering dust in my secondhand book cabinet for quite some time, and I hesitated to dive into Gregor's tale. However, in May, I finally began to read it, but I kept finding myself shutting the book after only a few sentences, often for days or even weeks. This novella evoked extreme emotions in me; be it sobriety, panic, grief, agony, numbness, or hopelessness. What should have been a quick read turned into my longest literary journey (around 70 pages), taking approximately five months to complete. Therefore, I won't provide a review this time, as I believe I lack the authority to judge Franz's emotions. Could it be that I, too, am a Franz Kafka, considering the diverse (spatio-temporal) yet similar realities we inhabit???
M🦋
Inside the four walls, like a wounded dove,
In the cage, like a tear-soaked glove,
God wept, like a river's endless flow,
To be with the one left.
The Dalit, like a forgotten ember's glow,
The women, like a hidden river's undertow,
The transgender, mirroring the delicate metamorphosis of a butterfly,
The black, like a midnight sky bereft of guiding stars,
The poor, akin to a parched desert yearning for the touch of water,
The earth, our shared cradle, binds them all in its embrace.
Nobody inside the walls heard the cries,
Of the God, like a whisper in the skies,
Invisible, like the moon in daylight's glare,
Yet His pain, like lightning, split the air.
Let us listen,
let us break down these walls,
Hear the cries of God, as injustice appalls,
For within us all, there's a spark of grace,
To change the world and create a better place.
~ M🦋
