The Dismal Order

Desperately it awakes me up, by its loud and exhausted sound every morning. Revealing from the out-state of heart with deepest pain, depth the sky might open to hear it! It is longed-for torrents, like you imagine blood roaring over the tiny swimmer in the brain that now discerns for there are blocks else everywhere!

Willing still continues beyond this double and long-lasting battle for triumph, to where a man you knew could not take a deep breath and his back arched, and he still stayed like that until his time was up! Trying the damndest to find acceptance as you see it was all the poor man could do for the time being, reasonably standing across the dust-strewn road from the saloon, and think again, how some men are obsessed, watching their bleeding tears, dropping out of their exhausted faces, and begging eyes.

Yes, yes, yes; dying for a drink but couldn’t take a deep draught, the drink to end all drinks (because the river still seems dry), and I still walk on, and stumble through the sparse grass, scattering seed on the sealed earth, crushing flowers that will bloom nowhere else but in this blinding colour, further into the centre of the earth where the slums were cleared and nothing built in their place.

The light breaks the vision sometimes; fragments of childhood shimmer away from where I run and stop, and tumble and skip – one brilliant evening and i have turned away from childhood – and haunted, to find a mound like his grave and dash my desiccated boot against it. As I weep it a glance up at the concrete and glass roomblock where the beveled glass is a burning amber in the setting sun vulnerable and all alone cleaner comes to the window, at one, whispering the pain and separation, and I stare at for it was the main cause to what has driven here in this dismal corner of the room, teasing terribly with pain, and enjoys it watching me suffer!

 

 

 

About samad1986

Abdul Samad Haidari is a poet, writer, teacher and a former freelance journalist, currently residing in Indonesia as a stateless refugee. He is the author of The Red Ribbon He fled his home country at the age of seven and grew up wandering in Pakistan and Iran as a child refugee, and was separated from his family for the majority of his childhood. For two years, at the age of eight and nine, he was forced into child labour in the construction industry in Iran. In contrast, Pakistan offered refugees like him the opportunity to study and work. This education and work experience culminated in Abdul teaching computer studies and English language courses at the Intel Computer Center and Pak Oxford Professionals. After the collapse of the Taliban government, Abdul returned to Afghanistan thinking that the security situation had improved, and that he could take part in the reconstruction of his war-torn country. With this in mind, Abdul served as a freelance journalist and humanitarian aid-worker in areas of the country that remained dangerous to civilians because of the influence of terrorist groups. Abdul served with the Norwegian refugee council (NRC), ActionAid Afghanistan, Daily Outlook Afghanistan group of newspapers, and The Daily Afghanistan Express. As a freelance journalist, Abdul wrote articles and editorials about on-the-ground realities, which were then circulated widely. These had a particular focus on women and children’s rights, corruption, transparency and accountability in government, warlords and terrorist groups’ actions and the systematic persecution of minority groups in both Afghanistan and Pakistan.
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