Timore

by Sauda Salim

There is much to do when Terror strikes,
and peace to be found while the bombs ignite. 
Time stops, and all your wet and welled eyes can see 
are comets – frozen in space – on their tails, a dawning reality
and the impossibility of making a wish. 
There is much to do when there is much to rather not.
Like poking holes on fabric as gray as your breathing is. 
As still as your existence. As perforated as your vision. 
Like letting fireflies glow in your abyss, 
flying and glowing, glowing away. 
Like making paint from agony and watching it trickle,
forming markings like the symbols of initiation upon your chest, 
a painful, yet glorified rebirth.
Like taking in the pounding of the earth 
and giving birth to it as your African nana's drums.
There are bright places, she used to say, all the bright places.
And her voice that called the war cry sings for you to not die...

There is much to do when Terror strikes, 
and more to do when there is much to rather not.
Big droppings from the enemy's cattle suffocate you and
the tip-tapping of your fleeing feet threatens to break into dance.
It's true that the fires ceased to be places you were fondled.
Now they hold memories like Thich, burnt like the first dish 
you made when you walked into our boma.
Now the fire has a smell, and your senses, long numbed 
like a mutilated Southern flesh seem to work just well.
There's magic in the fire. The same fire that made you scream 
let my people go gave you a voice. It scalded you
but look, heralded and tall you stand. 
The voice that we demand.
There is much to feel when Terror strikes, 
and senses to be awoken.
Rusty, red, rowdy blood from the blades of the foe's swords
we use to paint our sunsets.
And scared voices sing.

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