Tag Archive: Rock


Africa Day.

The African Winds.

By Afzal Moolla.
25th May 2021.

I am the winds of Africa.

I am the winds whispered to by the ancients of the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela,

the winds that have heard the murmurs of the ancestors at Great Zimbabwe.

I am the winds resting at Mapungubwe,
I am the winds of the Upemba,
I am the winds above Giza,

I am the winds of the Djenné-Djenno,
I am the winds of the Songhai,

I am the winds of the Numidia,

I have breathed across these lands,
these lands have breathed into me.

I have witnessed colonialists carving up my continent,

I have heard screams of mothers and children,

I have seen the slave-ships set sail,

I carry the memories of my people manacled, and bound in chains.

I have heard the shrieks of my people,
I have seen my lands plundered,

I have borne witness to genocide,
to notions of racial superiority,
to oppression,
to tyranny,

I have caressed far too many bruised bodies,
I have dried far too many tears.

I am the winds of Africa.

I embrace the hope my people carry,
I feel it thud-thudding in their veins,

I encompass my lands bathed with renewed spirit each dawn,

I encompass my lands infused with hope each morn,

as my Africa,
our Africa,
wraps us in her dazzling multi-hued, comforting shawl.



copyleft afzal moolla 2021.

Are you fine, they well-meaningly ask.

Well here’s How I “really” feel at times …

“I am fine”.

no i am not fine,

i am as fine as a dung dusted shoe is from a shine,

i am not fine, i am lost, between alluring dreams, and silent screams,

sometimes a duet,

mostly a cacophony of noise,

white and bland and dull,

just enough to discern, that humanity is null,

with all humaneness void,

and of all conscience devoid.

Delhi. A Funeral Pyre.

Delhi. A Funeral Pyre.

by her child with no name.

And as I sit here today, these countless waves away,

my Delhi, into whose mad, warm, gritty, welcoming arms I fell on that early autumn day,

is welcoming no more.

And as I sit here today with relief, that from her I am so far torn apart,

my Delhi, whose diyas of light that once lit up my heart,

is a funeral pyre.

And as I sit here today, just another child of hers with no name,

I breathe,
I can breathe.

And even as my mother chokes, the stench of relief that I feel,

of being from her so very far,
this vagabond child of hers with no name,

breathes with relief,

to his eternal, asphyxiating shame.

life now …

clutching, grasping,
holding onto,
gulping down, hungrily,
each breath, every breath,
fearing the onset of the years,
the splinters of time,
embedding,
piercing,
this moment, the very now,
numbed by repetition,
embalmed by trepidation,
of tomorrows yet to dawn,
suspiciously sifting through the strands of greying hair,
seeking clues,
the because to the whys,
the slow mornings,
restless nights,
jabbing reminders,
as years, decades,
scurry, scamper,
flee,
feeling it all slipping away,
standing, immobile,
stilled by the implacable sentinels at the doorstep,
these immovable sentries,
concealing the door,
that leads to today …

Victor Jara 1932 – 1973.

Victor Jara
1932 – 1973.

Trampled flowers sighed,
while your songs filled the skies.

All of nature trembled,
from the pampas to the desert sands,

the day they tried to silence your song.

That day,

all of nature rebelled,
each filament, all infinite strands,

for though they tried to strangle your song,

all that they could take,
were your hands.

talkin’ bobby dylan blues … … …

image

'illusory art' by Maya

howling moons, broken teaspoons, cajole me back, to the track, the path i tread, sans fear sans dread, this death row shell, a barren cell, twisting and torn, of all humanity shorn, a living being, passing through this world unseeing, left in rags to rot at the curb of the road, where golden chariots roam and rode, gleaming heels, covet deal-wheedlin’ real deals, tossin’ a few spares in the outstretched cup, off on silken robes to fly, far from the dregs, the chattel, the me’s and you’s & i, high on up into the golden sky, paradise waits, stalks, preys, on this highway of hurt, and on many doleful by-ways … and still, yet, through it all, im stuck in his shell, this cell, and though this is written in joburg city, where i do dwell, if woody’d be here, he’d damn us all to fascist hell … … …

Song for Springsteen …

For Bruce …

it was a rain-swept monsoon day

way back then, so many moons away

when i felt the music strumming in my veins

setting me free like a runaway horse without any reins

you sang of simple truths,

your verse spoke to people just like me

in my lonely, wasted, and desolately quiet night

as you screamed out tragic human wrongs, and of everyone’s plight

‘bobby jean’ spoke to me

of that girl down the street

glimpses of whom, we as innocents would furtively meet

and ‘the river’ that flowed through my ever-barren heart

led me down further roads of thunder

when slowly i finally learnt that the hardest part was fighting on

and never to surrender

to the hard-luck dreams that were born to run

while i danced in the dark

with memories vivid and stark

even as i whined like that dog who for forever lost his howling bark

and then a ‘human touch’ came along

and ‘better days’ seemed real, not just words in a song

and still you sang and swayed and spoke straight into my unseeing eyes

as gardens of secrets were opened, and as your fist punched the skies

in an anger that i too felt and in whose cauldron i too burned

as we saw murder get incorporated, while on its wobbly axis, our fragile world apathetically turned

and then suddenly i was told that i was all grown up

working on a highway of scattered ideals

and absolving myself by sprinkling some coins in a waiting cup

well, after all these years of walking along so many a thorny road

with an armour of your verse covering me, even as i hear them taunt me and even as they continue to goad

but now i can feel myself fading away, into the bleakness of this coming night

just like the ghost of that old tom joad…

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