Sparrows and Bombs,

The plan is the body,

there is each moment a pattern.

As is the leaflets they make like rain,

And the shape they bear, in flickering

Murmuration, as if 

the stars themselves 

descended to make good of this world.

They speak of floods.

There is no arc,

only bombs dipping into the land like oars, 

its soil, split open, sewn with limbs.

Still, there is the immovable constant,

Whose rage is not yet palpable.

And the sky that does not break,

And the streets seething with life.

And the machines they build in our names,

And the cruelty we are forced to bear

In a land not ours.

The pen will not 

take the form of a dagger.

They send messages of cruelty from the sky

And It renders its beauty.

Children’s birthdays are buffered by the ricochet of missiles.

Love is built in reverence of fear itself.

Still, if we fail, do we bend at the waist?

Do we sit on our knees and play witness?

Is forgiveness just a name made foreign?

Is there only beauty in spite of horror?

Is there a plan?

Gachi is an occasional writer and a proud eldest daughter. Her favourite quote, from Audre Lorde, is: “The white fathers told us: I think therefore I am. The black goddess within each of us – the poet – whispers in our dreams; I feel, therefore I can be free.