Here death makes no noise 


It was dark –
the jungle was thick and muddy.
The gliding moon was dim,
the guiding stars were far-off.
We marched on with shoes in hands;
backpacks on shoulders and heads
with short sighs exhaling infrequently.
Eyes should be lensed,
fixed before the feet,
with no torch – so –
the feet should shuffle with caution
by following the clattering sound of
each others’ footsteps.
These human smugglers are escorting us
at the back, front, left and right sides
with their sharp piercing swords in hands.
The escorting men from behind make sure,
the departing shuffles have left no signs…

The crowd walks like a river bank…
… hushed …
No on has to make noise…
when a sudden cooked baby cry
blasted at my back in a near distant,
and this chuckled ear to ears…
One of them rushed to her mother
with frowned face…
“Stop her making noise, “he screams.
She quickly puts her hand on her mouth,
scared, shivering, making sure that
the baby doesn’t make noise
unaware that this is the last sound,
this skinny baby makes – and
the last kick in her bare arms…
After few minutes, she realizes that
her baby doesn’t move anymore.
but that is too late now –
she is gone…yes, she died…
“a dirty refugee”
“the waste of humans”
stops breathing just like that…
And she is buried there in rough,
like you throw your garbage away.

One death
My legs slowed down,
my lips murmured
their silent prayers.
I could not speak that loud,
and my vision failed to see her face.
I was neither alive, nor dead…hanged.
I stood still and I knew nothing but
only staring into the heart of
the scary darkness.
There was a ghostlike silence,
breeze did not whisper either.
And there,
I read much of the night,
while my pen cried with bleeding ink
and only this unknown jungle showed
a bit of mercy…

The desperate groans
that midnight did not cross
that spot,
that swallowing land,
neither the borders –
it was buried unheard.

The soil in forgetful mud is fed
with a tiny life and little flesh
to fertilize the starving grass.
Hopping that the sudden frost,
and blades of grass
do not disturb her cold bed…
and that the nightingales
sing their lullabies
to accompany her loneliness.
Abdul Samad Haidari
(19/08/2019 – 04:26am,
Jakarta, Indonesia).

(Full poem is not published – this will come in my new book of poetry)

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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