Whispers of the Masses

Stumbled into the whispers of the masses

And my time, it passes

It always passes

Stuck in chains that tare limbs by limb

In the stink of the burnt…

In the buzz of…

And the whiff of the whip of the

Stuck in chains that tare limbs by limb

In a pool of blood my slumber swims

And my hands stamp the ground

Conscious that the whispers of the masses don’t make a sound

And the blood trickles from my hands

Back into the pool of blood it lands

This can’t be all mine

And the corpses were lined up for shooting

And so the abstract terms they were saluting

With the police poor man’s existentialist stare

How they worshiped and praised what to him was not there

So they were shot all in a line

And the blood was not all mine

Blood mixes

And is mixed

 

 

I saw the police poor man’s existentialist fear

Came and the prisons were almost yet clear

And the fear and the worship stared him by eye

Now and by the name of Mother Justice you cry

Well almost

 

See the struggle remained and remains

This kind of blood that eternity stains

 

But the blood mixes

My hand is dry

I cannot lie

But how blood mixed and becomes mixed

When the color of blood is fixed

Uniform odor

Killed by an order

 

I recall the sun utter tunes without purpose

Endless heart-stricken poems of shallow surface

Endless chants coughs up empty endless words

Stabbed into stutters vibrating vocal cords

They call it the whisper of the masses

My time it may pass but their whispers never passes

Walaa Quisay is president of both the Middle East and North Africa Society and Arabic Poetry Society at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London, United Kingdom.

Tagged as: poetry, Walaa Quisay