being qaali

i shiver and shake
my voice quakes
sentences i cannot make
stumble over my words
every syllable in haste
these are moments
very chaste in symmetry
no need for word playing skilfully
or ignorant bigotry
there’s a line in the sand
where wrong is wrong
and right is right
and though my palms are sweaty
I breathe life into the mic
and recite cries
in C8 to low E
stories and dreams of being free
little kids with the city’s key
star gazing through grand baobab trees
they want life
to not be cleansed like dirt
or trafficked like merchandise
they want rights
to not have rockets over head like kites
and snow falling through their roofs at night
they want to be more than the world’s project against plight
to carry themselves with pride
and not have their souls squeezed of life
as double standards are noosed and tied
I cry
For they die
and humanity turns a blind eye
on their fellow mankind
as contracts of demise are signed
for truly there is no bind
so I cry
cries of the ones left behind