I don’t want to play, I just wish I could walk…


Twelve it is,

Though scratched and peeved,

The broken military watch,

Is still ticking,

Like me it is the only other inheritance of my family,

Our only possession that wasn’t rubbed on to the ground completely,

My grandpa gave it over to my dad,

After a short stint in the Israeli army,

And, since then dad preserved it,

Like he’d taken care of me till now…

It’s a brand new year,

Kids all around the world,

Must have gotten together,

Must be a hell of a time,

To play, to eat, to make merry,

But I don’t want so much,

I know kids in my world are not so lucky,

I don’t want to play,

I just wish I could walk…


I’d seen those jet planes that close for the very first time,

Gripped by their power,

Trembling in that macho sound of theirs,

I thought that manly machine attracted me,

But, before I could think anymore,

The ceiling came down on me,

And, soon my pounding heart,

Caught the pain,

My leg wasn’t there,

I could feel myself only till my knee…

So, now I don’t want to play,

I just wish I could walk…

Crushing on my tool in that Turkish refugee camp,

Resting my aching arms and those crutches,

I miss my dream of playing with my brother,

With all of my family dead,

Now I dream no more,

All I want is to ask friends from that happy world out there,

Did they need my leg that badly?

Only a little makes me happy,

I don’t want to play,

I just wish I could walk…


(Inspired from Joe Sterling’s CNN article, “Uprooted by Syria’s war: ‘Is there a worse way to live than this?’ “,http://edition.cnn.com/2013/01/14/world/meast/syria-refugees/index.html?hpt=wo_c1)


Time for Reconciliation, my Bosnian friend…


Man is born out of earthly flesh and blood,’

He is all the same everywhere, the same heart,

The same set of emotions with the same desire to live…

When the Lord did never segregate, who are you to?

Phases like ethnicity, race and religion,

Are all defined by the human you,

It is your cast, it is your creed, and it is your society,

All concepts out of your human mind,

For the almighty only wanted you to live,

He did not authorize you to differentiate his creations from one another,

Neither did he want you to mark ethnic characteristics, religious features,

Never did he want his most powerful creation,

To define roots for each other…

As an outsider, when I saw those kids,

The pain underneath their smiles,

I couldn’t pick the Serbs out of them,

Neither could I point out the Muslims, nor the Croats,

All I could guess from their common fair complexion,

And their sharp rugged features,

That they were sons of Bosnia, the future of this blood-thirsty land…

It’s time to seek repentance,

Vent out sins, time for confession,

It’s also time for the blessed few from the far nooks and corners of the word,

To help undo years of brain-wash,

To help direct the Bosnian youth,

Towards prosperity, peace, ethnic tolerance, and hard-work…

This is just a new beginning,

A resurrection of the Bosnian end,

It’s time for brotherhood to thrive,

It’s time for reconciliation, my friend…


My morning prayers on the Irrawaddy


Painting the skies in shades of pink, vermillion, orange and red,

Our powerful Master was regaining strength, igniting like a ball of fire,

Above my darkened mountains, on our distant border with Tibet,

It seemed as if the entire Irrawaddy,

Its oak and pine filled rainforests,

Each and every creature loathing within it,

And every Burmese inhabitant on it,

Bowed down,

Darkened themselves with gratitude,

With pleasure,

For regularly lightning up weakening spirits of this majestic river,

For strengthening its banks to survive attacks from the clandestine monster of erosion,

Eating away Irrawaddy, eating away banks of my sacred Land of the Golden Pagoda,

With folded hands and closed eyes,

I prayed to my Golden master,

I hope one day,

This fisherman from Mandalay,

Can beg this world to take notice,

If not help us, help my land,

At least help me awaken my sleeping baby-kissers…


Beyond Irrawaddy’s Beauty…


From his common sense, this fisherman can presume,

Burma must be a rare ingredient in the Western gossip stew,

For my land remains out of their sight,

Engulfed in thick clouds of uniformed-terror…

A uniform is all that one needs here,

To live a life, devoid of humane ethics and sanity,

To win an opportunity to mete out fear,

And, dive into the depths of ruthless inhumanity…

Any day we poor fisherman refuse,

To pay that daily exorbitant boat tax,

To let them rob us off our hard-earned gasoline and rations,

To let them traffic thousands of us to Thailand, China, and Malaysia,

To die each day, being eaten slowly by mental, and sexual exploitation,

We can be lawlessly shot, then and there…

On mood-swings of our dazed soldiers,

Depends the fate of my village,

For like other Burmese villages, it could be razed down to ashes,

It could be plundered, with its women abused,

And slaves easily carved out of its men, already battling hunger,

Our own men, our own protectors have been inflicting unrest,

Our supposed, saviors are hunting us down every day,

We need the West to help us out, to do its best…

Like the Taliban, our military, too deserves lessons of a lifetime,

For trying to tarnish the Land of the Golden Pagoda,

For showering devastation on this soil of monks and peace,

For trying to ruin this majestic gateway to the enchanting East…

Like each and every day,

I’m trying to seek refuge,

In the beauty of the pristine Irrawaddy,

In the beauty of my lush forests, and my green hills,

Trying hard to oar away from the voluminous uncertainty,

Only, hopelessly awaiting a day,

When the West and the influential rest,

Will pay heed to whatever this fisherman had to say,

To all that we endured,

To generations wasted beneath Irrawaddy’s beautiful deception,

Generations that that have long been shunned,

Have long been silenced, their conscience procured…



Riding on her beauty to my resurrection…


Through those war-torn streets of Kabul,

I slogged with the Sun almost grilling my back,

‘Please, leave me alone’ was all that I wanted to say,

To those ugly thoughts…I couldn’t bring their pieces together,

Let alone lining down bodies of my friends,

The only ones I knew till now, till my first deportation…

Like a typhoon, the thoughts disappeared,

As my eyes stripped off that momentary slumber,

It opened into the markets of Sheerpur,

It opened up to a nodding head in a Burka.

Her motionless stance engulfed me completely,

I stood there stagnant, already a slave of their desire,


Popping out from her Burka,

The stare said it clear, “Can you protect me soldier for they say a woman seldom needs a gun, as she always has a man by her side as her shield, and her strongest weapon.

If you really can, take me away,

Take me New York, take me to London, take me to Spain.”

The rays of the setting Sun lit up my face,

Without a permission from my cerebrum,

My legs were on their way,

Suddenly, I was feeling more of a man,

More than I ever felt confirming the enemy dead,

Happiness was knocking at my door,

And I could hear the Almighty say,

“You live to make merry and gracefully accept your end, the rest is my business,

I guess now you know your road,

Beauty fetched you a resurrection amidst this destruction,

For your soul stands worthy of companionship, your calling’s far away in peace, far away from this deadly episode”



Debaroon’ 2012