The other side of the coin. You rub the coin on one side, always, and while it is impoverished and its owner starves or is killed, the other side swells with the riches of enslavement. This poem is about those you like to call terrorists. Why? Because your masters tell you to think of them that way. There are a few exceptions and perhaps you like to think you’re one of them. If you are, how will they be able to tell?
“In Kashmir: Writing under Occupation”
They want us to write. in blood.
and only write. of peace.
they capture our land. make us sow rice that is not seed. kill us. rape. They tell us we are ungrateful. like children – who do not see what is good for them. holding us with many kinds of guns; they grimace at the world calling our blood on their faces –
they sell pens.
we buy with blood.
many of them, from their mythical land come to us, with clean hands, softened in the Ganges. they meet our eyes. that gaze, which through you goes elsewhere. behind their orange irises you see wheels turning. like the innards of a Swiss-watch. precise. surgical.
they sell paper.
so much paper. we buy with blood.
they put the kettle on boil. it whistles. the seduction of tea.
there is no better heaven. our pens…
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