Shadi Eskandani

It’s killing season back home.
the children of the children who
never learned to sew their mouths shut now
burn pieces of cloth in pyres of revolt,
with bare heads screaming at a sky that holds no mercy
for this endless drought.

Dehydrated tongues utter forbidden spells
as the profane becomes sacred on this ancient land
where prayers to the sun, moon and stars
means being good to one another in this human form,
means speaking truth at all cost.

Yet men choose to play god time and again
sacrificing young bodies, shedding blood
as libations to a self-proclaimed divinity.
and this desecration, witnessed by
enraged ancestors
vowing to never lay rest til they avenge
entire lineages with their
bare hands.

It’s been killing season back home.
“43 years” remains on my exiled throat
as I ponder on time’s indifference, cruel
like the silence of false allies, like those
who speak of justice, uphold their image and
bank accounts on hollow words with
selfies and self-righteousness
sinking into narcissism’s abyss.

Meanwhile,
our mothers, aunts, like banshees
piercing grief into closed ears.
our sisters, daughters, spilling rage
onto concrete.
for women. for life. for freedom.

Killing season is here and the volcano is no longer
dormant.
Unplug your hearts,
and witness the glory of its eruption.