Ink Drops

A drop of ink on my daily life,
Ripples through the storms,
Turns clouds into starry nights,
And when the sun resurrects,
It creates a flock of birdsongs,
As if oases in nearby deserts
Can recreate a treasure map,
But I insisted on believing in it,
Storytellers of ink-filled papers,
To keep writing, I drop the ink.

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National Day of Robotic Maintenance

Your story, main character, and world
Talked to me, to the elders of my tribe,
During an elusive era where simple
Silhouettes walk on a desert’s horizon,
Searching to settle near a fruitful oasis,
And when books were written to
Commemorate our legends, they were
Suffocated to never reveal the rightful heir,
(to a scorching throne buried in quicksand)
Yet, after decades of silence the glorious
Book was resurrected in a classical concert,
Soon to be confiscated, burnt, and our
Whispering hearts to be forever silenced,
Now, we are but drones awaiting the
National Day of Robotic Maintenance.

Squeaking Lions

The lions of today’s news
Grew long scorpion tails,
A hybrid found in deserts
Away from vibrant oases:
Fresh beginnings for the
Lost animals panting on
The doors of burnt death,
Still, the deformed hybrids
Will try to be on headlines,
Suffocating their own arid
Lands until shades of red
Fill the elemental sources
Of life to water our eyes,
Their incompleteness is
The truthful buried acts
Of masking themselves
Behind defective faces,
And what we see is a
Black flag and squeaks
Uniformly produced in
Studios of modern TV
Series commercialised
At the expenses of our
Young innocent souls,
And while they dance on
Our shattered dreams,
We have to break those
Masks of the so-called
Lions and snap their
Ugly long scorpion tails.