We only see the avalanche
The revolution, the bandannas and pickets
Holi colors and graffiti art
Blood canvases, open banners
And hearts covered in berets
When every gun becomes
As invisible as the soldier holding it
When we don’t feel or sense
Bullets piercing the intercostals
And ribs broken by force

And the next day
We are just a news item
On every TV station – CNN to Al Jazeera
When ghosts have no names
And the wind howls one word
“revolution” after all is in the air
When all one can do is to stare
At the power of impulse on tinder hearts
Ravaging wild fires on streets
When a march is as much as a last dance
As you leave forever, in the absence of foot marks
On tar or history – just tattoos on roadside
Paying homage to marching souls
Jaywalking towards heaven
While body ink drips through cracks above hell
And the present is found atoning
Inside the purgatory
Of change


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