It’s All in My Hands
In a moment
the city turns to pebble, stone, dagger, razor
ruin, spark, flame, ash

In a moment,
mobs with hammer, pickaxe, shovel and hand grenade
pulverise the city

My pen collides with the skeletons of history
Winds howl, like the death rattle of corpses waking from their slumber
Whirling winds of death shake the very pillars of civilisation
Hurling dust into an ebbing faith in life
Sinking claws, vomiting blood everywhere.
In a moment, vision is blinded and directions obscured,
The skin of humanity flayed off

I: a poet
I cannot exist as a mere reporter.
Nor as a court bard.
I want to grit my teeth and speak without mincing my words
about this conspiracy
But for that
I must retrieve my pen
from a deep dark well —
my father’s well,
my ancestral well,
the well that is the final refuge of women
who dive to their own shameful death.

I have to throw in a fishing hook, and pull out
my pen, a brand new pen
with my hands alone.