Two Poems
By Zahra Fatimie
Descended
It may have been my ancestors
who held the blade,
but my fingers are the ones that bleed
from the consequences of their violence.
It may have been my ancestors
who wrote history as conquerors,
but one cannot build an empire
without drowning in the blood of innocents.
It may have been my ancestors
who sought glory and power,
but it is I who watches their legacy
collapse into weakness and failure.
It may have been my ancestors
who were feared for their valour,
but I watch their sons hide behind
their shields of cowardice, and
sacrifice their daughters while
playing the role of the doting
father and brother, who wish
for all women to be free–but only
if the woman belongs to the
house of their neighbours.
It may have been my ancestors
who are remembered as heroes,
but as I watch their descendants,
I see no heroism.
The Barren Printing Press
When ink is pressed,
into the pages of a book
the book feels a sense of joy,
that it has a purpose to serve, and
it will soon be clutched
in the hands of a young girl
who’ll trace the letters and learn how to read.
When the book is delivered,
it lies in the carton
spine-to-spine with fellow books,
and wonders when it will be opened,
it may be summer, but school starts soon.
But, the book is unaware
that the streets are barren, and
there’s hardly the sight of a woman,
let alone groups of girls
with white headscarves and black uniforms
making their way through the groups
and walking into the schools.
The schools are chained and shut, and
other books with names, that reveal
the incriminating identity of a learner
are being burned by a matron-
tears streaming down her face as she prays
for an end to what she knows will
steal childhoods, livelihoods, and
rob the neighbourhoods of joy.
And the streets are barren
of the life that bloomed in the last twenty years,
painted by the laughter of daughters
born to mothers who fought
for their children to live with what had been
taken from them in their own youth.
And the streets are barren,
of the dreams that the youth
were promised twenty years ago and
the future their parents bled for.
And the streets are barren,
even the wind cannot sing
when there are forlorn cries
of mothers mourning their living daughters.
Soon, the printing will stop, and the presses will be as barren as the streets.
Zahra Fatimie was born and raised in Kabul, Afghanistan, and now resides abroad. Zahra posts her poetry on her social media. She has been published by Coffee and Conversations, Flash Phantoms, and Exquisite Death for both poetry and short stories. She is also the editor and co-founder of an online magazine, Zartaar Lit.
