In a manger he was born
in the midst of endangered peace,
in the season of turban-faced boys
hiding under stained waters of religion.
By a single-mom he was raised
after papa's blood soaked the arid earth;
"he was hit by a blind bomb"
so said a frightened eye witness.
"I didn't see the shrapnel,
just his head lying next to his frame
after the blast that blanked stares
and blurred the sense of reason."
He was raised out of inheritance-
a herd of cattle; a mud castle
and a bag full of pebbles
picked from papa's death bed.
He soon became a man
at a green age of fourteen
when he fought intruders
with his mosquito-like hands
off mummy's weak frame;
they wanted to get into her
like they do others.
No one is safe. Not even safety!
After the fight, he lost his sight
and life's blanket became thin.
He asked for a flute
to blow away his sorrow,
rather than stay mute
to the new forms, shapes and figures.
He is now seen in markets,
without a cow, without a mud castle,
but with a bamboo flute
piping soluble songs from his heavy heart
to fill the void of a lifetime.
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