On resting my pen…

My land bleeds from the same hands that once gardened her

The soil now spits the blood of fathers and mothers

fallen by the children they raised

the echo screams the collective silence of the bystanders, us

the poets

the artists

the composers

the historians

of our generation

Too many voices to sound

To many troops

Too many tales

Not enough of those to listen

I break my pen

For what good is there if my words can’t speak my people’s pain

I empty the ink over the soil

Where it’s the same as blood without its host

I tear my paper apart

For what good am I

Writing of love amongst war

Writing of hope standing over late bodies

I am no longer a poet

If cries and songs sound the same to my ears

If I don’t recognize the faces beyond just news

What good are my poems

If my vocabulary is limited to the few emotions only my flesh knows

What good are my poems

If they can’t cross borders and fall with the falling

Fight with the fighting

Cry with the grieving

Die with the dying

What good are my poems

If they can’t be a daughter to all the mother tongues

If they can’t be the moon, the only light the feet can trust

What good is my pen

What good am I

And so,

I rest my pen

In silence

In doubt

In question

In resent

In fear

I rest my pen

In everything but peace.