Tuesday, July 19, 2016


Here, fell the first martyr,
this is what the hill promises- I didn't know

I knew others died for freedom
now lived into exposed skin, full fledged rights to talk

preach into others that the distance between God
and humans is the same distance between two fingers interlocking

yet I walk the hill in search of a golden sacred heart
a locket clicked in a perfect moment

a statue of a lady, mistress, songstress
Montmartre, place of the arts, streets winding

lined with cafes, with tourists pretending they do not
understand that history can be replaced by a paint-brush

dreams of Dali make the ground shake with streaks
of blue, yellow, red and white,

colors of the values we learnt as we danced
over the misery of others to the sound of her tears

Flamenco-lady, with bruised breasts
shriveled veins, she is a legacy of failed love and unbroken

sex-clad names of faces of the city where another songbird
slept, under the skies of Paris,

taught the windmills to spin,
red,red moulins, can-can  dancers

here, the first promise of stardom
compact, like a hundred stroming battles at once

this is Montmartre, gathering of sacred hearts
around a pit-fire of colors, smells, promises
to rise, to rise, to rise
when still married to the past.

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