A funeral is no tragedy,
not foreboding, not a wound —
as long as it is of others,
as long as it is not in your room.

We refresh the feed.

168 schoolgirls bombed.
Scroll.
A civilian building, a drone.
34 killed.
Scroll.
A hospital bombed.
Scroll.

Children carried in arms
that are also broken.
Scroll.

People rejoicing
over the closure of a medical college.
Scroll.

A person lynched.
Scroll.
A man killed his entire family.
Scroll.
A woman killed herself and her children.
Scroll.

A student at a premium institute
hanged himself.
Scroll.

A medico ended her life —
bullied long enough
that living stopped making sense.
Scroll.

And somewhere in a grand building
a man in a spotless white
gives sermons of progress
to a room full of applause.

A man in shining armour
laughs at the killings
with a swelling pride
he boasts of it,
counts the dead like a scorecard,
like a harvest,
like proof of something.

We have named our weapons
after birds, after gods,
after the very winds
that carry the ash away.

That low
humanity has stooped
and called the stooping progress,
and given it a patent.

The dead have
no blue tick,
no follower count worth mourning,
no algorithm that favours their grief.

They have
no camera at the rubble,
at the broken bones and ribs,
no correspondent on the ground,
no breaking news that breaks
for those who have no oil, no gold, no uranium.

They have
no vote, no strategic value,
no prime time, no panel discussion.

They spoke once loudly
in the only language left to them,
the language of falling,
and we turned down the volume
and called it distant conflict.

They were killed in the wrong narrative.
Now only the wind carries them,
and the wind has no subscribers.

A funeral is no tragedy
when the dead have no channel,
no language we have chosen to learn.

They are statistics
until they are a door you know,
a name you have spoken aloud,
a smell you remember.

And by then
we have already scrolled
to the next innovation.

and they are nothing now
but collateral damage.

Copyright to jamil_ahmed_azad

I am to tell you a tale.
A real one.
No allegory, neither metaphor or metonymy.

Sit here.
Don’t make noise.
Turn off your phone’s notifications.
Just for while.
Yes. Great!
You are a good human.

So, yes! We are not all same.
Just not at all.
Look at Jack!
He is tempted by wit and intelligence.
Rationality keeps him sane and sober.

But there is one problem.
He asks questions, jsut too many.
There is a bigger problem.
Can you guess?

Okay! I will tell you.
He is in land of nonsense.
A place where logic vanishes.
And questioning is banned.

Once he questions about the status quo.
A police of wolves chase him down
For daring to think and ask for the truth.

Little did he know. He is in a land;
Where truth is blurred
And answers are forbidden.

The jaded Jack before he gives up.
He runs through the labyrinth
Of lies, deceit and stately machinations.

I forgot to tell you about Jill.
This man always chills.
She thinks her world is an elyseum.

In this land, there is a statesman.
He promises a Utopia with a sly hand.
Jill believes his rhetoric.
And calls him a king.

A blasphemy is charged if anyone questions.
Accolades here, accolades there.
But to meet his needs Jill has no bills.

Jack is lost still in this madness.
In search of truth, he incessantly roams.
Will he ever reach his home?

Copyright to jey-blah-blah

Language and life unfiltered alike
Rhetorics winding around mind
Sermons ringing on the lips
Sinful and sacred or whatever.

Sketches on the patchy wall,
Symmetrical and asymmetrical designs-
Triangles, squares, rectangles
Unfathomable shapes!

Esoteric titles on the bookshelves
Many catching the eyes and minds
Rugged book covers; antiquated smells
Some pages yellow, eaten up by termites
To many hands never touched,
Fingers never flipped,
Funny yet witty and creative bookmarks,

Cracked jars in the kitchens
Coffee mugs unwashed for months
Clogged up kitchen sinks
Dust laden exhaust fans

Cobwebs closing the eyes of the windows
Eclipsing the light barging in
Shadows slightly visible

And me in the absolute osmosis
Of this hackneyed obscurity of light
Freed, lightened and purged
Assuming an unquestionable immortality

Copyright to jey-blah-blah

Copyright to jey-blah-blah

I see the blemishes on my face

Of stress, anxiety and of aging

These black and dark signs of decay

Attract my commensurate attention.

I am not alarmed at.

I am not perturbed.

I don’t even know 

what my stress is for.

All that I feel is to revert.

Revert to my childhood

To wake up and run

To the cheers of the birds 

To chase the twinkling of fireflies

To imagine and to dream

A realm of time and space

Where the metaphysics of hatred 

The thick dust of intolerance 

The impatient selfish rush for gain

DO NOT EXIST TO MY SENSES

©®jey-blah-blah

  ©®jey-blah-blah