When the king is dead
When the fire is lit
When the skies are bloodshot red
The clown will dance
A dance of the dead
Sowing seeds with as many hands
Seeds from which only tomb stones grow
The clown will dance
Till the skies are covered in dark robes from end to end
Till the sun sets on the far-flung horizon
Till the night creeps in
And our dreams of another day drown
In sheer darkness of a night not worldly
The clown will dance
When the king is dead
When the fire is lit
When the skies are bloodshot red
When heavens intrude in worldly realms
When reason sleeps
When the night creeps
When the sun sits down
When small men cast giant shadows
And love, dignity, truth and even the light
Drown into the darkness of the shadows
Cast on the walls of my hometown
O my hometown, my home
How come we came to this?
How come these walls bear such burden?
Those crumbling mud walls of my hometown
The very walls that gave us shelter
Before we lost our innocence
Before the time immemorial
Before the fallen angel
Before the creation of sin
Before the hell and the heaven
Before shame
Before virtue
Before hangings and crucifixions
When liberty was yet not a privilege
When we all were children
When the crumbling walls of my hometown
Weren’t covered with shadow and posters of the missing
Once men of flesh and blood turned into shadows
And mementos hanging on crumbling walls
Under the dark shadows of those walls
The clown will dance.
Sameer Mehrab is a writer and co-founder of Balochistan Times. He often depicts Balochistan's socio-political dilemmas in his fiction and poetry. He is based in Canada.
