By Nashrah Tanvir
And these days saffron flags are served as an example
Of what power can trample.
Yeah, yeah, we all know ideas are bulletproof.
But what do you do
When they don't shoot ideas down?
What do you do
When they imprison it?
Shackle its old trembling hands and its failing legs?
What do you do when ideas rot behind the rust of prison bars?
And you are unable to tell the difference
Between the iron in the blood and the cage.
And we stand over the carcass of the idea.
We left a crime scene
A splatter of blood soaked words
And exhaled bullets
Do you see them
Ideas that died old and slow, and alone
Stand over this dome with sticks and stones?
Do you see them
Stand over these temple pillars mocking your truth?
There is no romanticization of revolution
There is only demise- slow or soon.
There are only wet clothes
From not being able to hold
Even a cup of water.
And the protestors are scared,
To write another poem
Into existence, into resistance of another idea
Sanctioned by law to fade away
Behind tall walls and iron bars.
Yet there'll always be birds
That sit on the prison wall,
That fly a little higher
'cause of the truth
They learned from this idea.
There'll be flowers caged within,
That will learn why they bloom
And why they wither and die.
There will be the wind
That flows a little slower
Just so it can listen to this idea
Before carrying it out
Into this wandering world.