Freedom is strife,
a differential consonant,
with silence bargained from solitude.
The former a beseecher,
the latter a form of tortured lullaby,
both honing our mothers
in prison cells
to bear us in foetuses,
tepidly carrying us
from the incoherence of midnight screechings against these walls.

Freedom is life under lock and key,
fear coming at us like a vengeful overlord,
strung around that unutterable word,
strung around that soiled desecration of young bodies in limbo,
strung around like irony,
pacing up and down on a nation’s destiny like gloom.
Calling us Bastards.
The War Boys.
Children of War.


If you could hear the screaming madness,
smell the lice on our hair,
the icy psychology of dictatorship in these guarded rooms.
How they betray us.

We cry out
then whimper like scapegoats,
chiselled out for the bounty,
all flesh and bone for the midnight,
all under this ‘freedom’


Freedom is strife
and ours are young bodies
sealed and entombed
within prison cells,
in the farthest reaches of civil wars
and eluding rescue.

For us,
freedom cries out,
‘let the silence be your bargain,
let it be a possible manner of survival’
For in this world,
it is the shroud over our naked bodies
when we are plucked
and outraged
and told to breathe and recover.

Freedom is life under lock and key.
Now could all this irony be lost on you?