Ghazal of Ruin

By Abdul Awal Arikewusola

 

Somewhere, the history of a country is tethered to ruin.

And Gazans, its citizens, are the victims of ruin—

 

The country plants chrysanthemums at the threshold of itself

But bombs pluck its people into vases of ruin.

 

A man promises his children a breadful return,

But returns to their limbs chewsticked by ruin.

 

On X, a three-year old boy sits, silent, above the rubble

That stuffs his family’s remains in the mouth of ruin;

 

He spreads his little palms like fragments of a broken boat,

& floats on tears: “yaa rabb… redeem my country from ruin.”

 

His voice trembles—a broken flute twirling the dead

From dust; they sing, rising from the abyss of ruin:

 

“We are a people denied of peace, of home; of

Identity—always in dread of some unforeseen ruin.”

 

Somewhere, from lifetimes, the country’s groan echoes:

“Yaa rabb, when will I be free from the claws of ruin?”

 

Abdul Awal Arikewusola, Swan XIV, is a Pushcart Prize Nominee. He writes from Saki, Oyo state, Nigeria.