A Glossary of Time
Heavy but soft was the heart and hand
that birthed you to the world.
When they asked them for your form of
identity, they said,
‘you are now into the world to find yourself’
You were born nameless. Your identity lie in every
border you’ll journey. To seek a name, they’ll call you Asiah — a path that opens to livelihood
So, you’ll watch in admonition, and be lived with joy of what enriches your journey.
Once, you’ll grow apart your aliveness, you’ll begin to wonder the existence of life — the pain and
struggle that eat deep into the skin. You’ll drink portion of steadfastness that holds onto the notion
to be chosen. In line for the cause to search for yourself, you’ll seek a name. They’ll call you,
Hamila, the one/girl who travels. You’ll tour the world of acceptance. You’ll fall in your skin, your
words — seeking no validation. You’ll recognise in your words and body, your faults. You’ll wake up to
a transition of accepting a new form. And when you look around for a name, you’ll see yourself
everywhere, Aniyah, God’s Favour — a recognition of your freedom.
I have read the books of faith.
I have travelled every page and conveyed every word that lies beneath the truth.
In my country, we believe in faith
You may only walk half a mile of no journey to be washed with half battered lies.
When the sun sets, you may see them examining their sheds — their truth beneath the night is withered away.
In my country, I have watched survivors tell their stories — the truth that still linger in their throats.
I have watched them write history, in faith and honour of the one’s they’ve lost.
And then, a spread force of silence is pressed against history. Lost in fate, their faith, my people denounce.
Whisperer of the Dark
Isn’t it funny how I was left with
the things that stayed in the days of the dark when light was feared most.
To escape through the dark,
I carried three things with me: a lantern, a mind and a face.
How do you tell people about light they never touched?
How do they see through the path that has only caused them to wait a generation.
So, with fear in my heart,
I carried a stone for it;
a lantern in my right hand while I ate my mind.
To put into work, my identity, in the later days of my confidence,
I’d speak fully with illumination blinding my eyes to their minds.
Singing songs of joy, dancing to the rhythm of the aftermath, and telling tales of my fathers
welcoming a little girl home to herself.
Metamorphosis of the Mind
Fickle and old.
Sometimes, a powerful tool that