Lost identity

Lost Identity 

We were the art,
that created the artefact.
We were the freedom,
That gave birth to the masonry.
The original, 
Behind the originality.

In the mind,
Of the lettered ones; 
the technology,
In the heart of the forest,
Is a beauty,
that never sleeps.

The  heart of the demi gods,
Bore the fairest of all creatures.

We were not lettered;
Our greatness,
Was beyond the pen.
The ink;that fuel, 
Our education,
Is a river that never dries.

We were cultured.
With Kings, and traditions.
We were seekers of truth. 
A firm believer of honesty. 

On the journey of live.
We traded our viceroy,
For the men of our dreams.
They came with their history,
They  put live in our sculptures.

“We became idolaters
 seeking power in the hands 
Of our creations”

Along came a storm.
liberating us;
from,
the reign of idolatry. 

It came with a price. 
A trade of our tradition.
Demonising our identity.
With powers beyond,
Our imaginations.

We were never saved. 

They are the lettered ones.
It was subtle and swift.
our mind, 
Yearn for their truth.
We traded our education, 
For their expired education.
We were seeker of truth.
Basking in pure honesty.

Until:

Our interest in honesty,
Became a weapon of dishonesty .
Our seed of reality, 
Became our dreams.

We were gullible goats
With  faithful stubbornness 

In the wilderness of confusion. 
We found a religion, 
That dictated our identity. 

We answer to
the call of foreigners 
With no visible direction 

A perfect scalar quantity 

For centuries 
We became Ancestors
To the cursed generation 

A generation: 
Societal extremism.
Lost in the tunnel of civilisation.
Channeled by expired education.
Fostered by congregated religiosity.

I will wait by the tree,
Where thousands of ape,
Bow before their master.
Where the blood of dinosaurs,
water the soil.

I will wait at the plains.
Where my ancestors,
Took over from the dinosaurs,
With innate intelligence and hands.

I will see a mirage, 
Of my tradition. 
I will hear,
the voices of my culture,
Only in the mind of a sage.

My names are written 
In Hebrew and Arabic
My tones are spoken in English 
My culture is American 
My shoe is Italian 
The echoes of my time 
Is Swiss 
I bank in England 
The laws of my land is British 
My emotions are in French 
My passions are Jewish 

Who am I? 

A child of the world 
Lost in civilisation 
And misplaced identity 

The lost identity 

*SALAUDEEN  HAMMED*

#internationalpoetryday

Treacherous Lines

Lines are drawn,

Ropes of red fall.

A look in the mirror.

A barrage of hatred.

An ache felt from within.

Pain felt in all places.

Longing for darkness.

But Yin always has a Yang.

So it stops. Now the lines are short.

Careful.

Hidden.

The pain is deep.

Distracting.

Welcoming.

A compromise.

Death to one.

Life to the other.

Till it comes again.

And it starts all over.

Lines will always be drawn,

Ropes of red will always fall.

                                                Ava.