It was always this gory.
Today, the blood’s at your door.
So you scream and shout and knock
Frantically
“Look, blood, blood at my door!”
Blood draining out of the slit wrist of that boy covered in mist.
Blood boiling out of the mouth of old men amidst bouts…
Of memory lapses,
Wall collapses and yesterday is today,
And tomorrow has been lived ages ago.
So you scream and shout and knock
Frantically
At every door.
Till you reach the one across the street.
And the child who opens can’t see.
Her eyes are gouged out of their sockets.
An Unseeing void of dismay.
“Look, blood, blood at my door,” you say
Straight, straight into the space she stares,
Then slowly moving her head she looks down.
You follow her gaze. Dreading. Knowing.
And you see blood, blood that had dried at her door.
Blood draining out of the slit wrist of that woman covered in mist.
Blood spilling out of the gashes of the man hit with lashes.
She looks up with her dead eyes and you see those tears you’d sneered
those frantic knocks you’d ignored
“Look, blood, blood at my door!” she had wailed,
While you’d waited for “the boat will sail.
Nothing will happen if you rail.”
The girl with the gouged out eyes smiles
And you know she knows. Blood’s at your door.
It’s always this gory
Today, the blood’s at your door.
Elia Jameel is lover of cats, freedom and democracy. History buff, wannabe poet, future inhabitant of detention camp. Not.
Featured image credit: Pariplab Chakraborty
