Tahreem Ruba Raza
I was living my life and it seemed more beautiful than I can explain;
I was sitting in a market, lively and boisterous
Watching the calligrapher who made me curious
I was soaking the sun and drinking the breeze
Wondering how he could mold his pen with such ease
I watched him swirl his ancient pen around
I began to dose off and block off all sound
I found myself in the hanging garden of Babylon
Everything appeared to be colored with crayon
There were kids running around playing tag
And in the center sat an old man dressed in a rag
His white beard and the smile on his face
Made it seem as if he had aged with much grace
I asked him who he was and who were the kids
He asked me to kindly sit down and so I did
"But my question lies to you o wanderer of your dreams Reach your conscience, is the world the way it seems?"
He asked me who I was and where I came from
Upon learning I was privileged he became glum
I asked him to say something and to please speak
So he said “listen very closely” but his tone was meek
“These are the children of the weeping angel
These are the children of the ringing bell
These are the children with a missing limb
These are the children with a past too grim
Her father was a soldier her mother a saint
They lived a simple life under god’s restraint
They followed all orders and said all prayers
But life always finds a way to be unfair
When the gunfire sang and the bombs began
Neither could save her from the terrors of man
Oh look, there’s another, a refugee from genocide
His mother was a widower his sister a bride
And there’s Ali, a victim of nature’s science
Imagine the nerve! His dark skins defiance
These o dreamer, are the kids I adore
These o dreamer, are the children of anarchic war
But my question lies to you o wanderer of your dreams
Reach your conscience, is the world the way it seems?
You dream of Babylon, a marvel to engineering history
When the real marvel is the human souls synergy
Why do the privileged dream of materialism?
Why have they not crossed the economic chasm?
Why do we not dream of a rich Africa?
Why do we not dream of a peaceful Syria?
Why do we not dream of a liberal Kashmir?
Why do we not dream of a life free from tears?
Why do we not dream of a free Palestine?
Why do we dream of everything of ‘mine’?
As tears welled in my eyes and the garden blurred
I woke in the market with my thoughts a little slurred
I pondered over my dream and sat for a good fifteen
Thought of the man and the gardens green
My emotions were raw, I was ready to change the world
I made a plan in my mind, my thoughts whirled
I got up to go, to change the worlds scene
But I thought just let me finish my day’s routine
I can change the world tomorrow surely there’s no hurry
But first I must do this and do that and off I scurry
Tomorrow became later
And later became never
The old man blurred, the children forgotten
The dream was surely just my routines distraction
I forgot the children, I forgot their pain
I forgot the tears after all I had nothing to gain
The privilege we were granted was enough
What did it matter to me if someone else had it rough?
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