That Fateful day
Those boys and girls, those men and women, those children and tiny-tots
Gathered to celebrate the new year of their own,
Festive, joyous, regal moments for the commoners,
In the swirls of light, in the spreading green,
They failed to see the writing on the wall,
And then unguarded, unprotected,
Those innocent people were shredded with bullets and guns,
Red-faced demons smothered every shriek of pain and wound,
Lying motionless the bodies on the ground,
On the narrow path, on the grass, on the dreadful well,
The afterlife of homicide engraved in stone.
That fateful day spilled only blood in twilight,
Trickling through the gagged silence,
Telling stories of monsters and massacre,
Stories of cowards throwing insults and abuses
Stories of hatred and injustice by the rulers,
Watching it, the silent sky has long memorized
Each cry, each scream, each valiant face.
Martyr’s wall
let the night be spoken
let the moon curate her death wish
let the buzzing be music.
Near the martyr’s well
Twenty-eight bullets hit the wall of human chains.
With rumbling rage within,
There is no flame but only numbness.
Fear of death leads to the escape to death
In the dark, in the unknown abyss,
A damp stillness still hangs heavy
And nothing to flush down the veins anymore.
Perhaps the suppressed voice I want to listen
Now breaking into echo,
Perhaps the cowards’ eyes I want to gauge
Now writing their own scripts.
Weapons crumble now,
Freedom heals the cracks,
Freedom turns the bullets into martyr’s song