My poems [1] A writer from the Prison

I heard something is saying like an indication of contempt.
"How he will forward"
"This design won't happen in his feeble intellect".
Even then I kept saying it again and again.
All I need is a pen.

Though they know all that.
They put on my feet the climbing hoop
And they tied on my back, enough water, food.
Then the flag of my country.

I saw it when I turned back.
The whole people in my country are in getting together.
To give me a good send-off.
First, I wasn't known whether it is freedom or imprisonment.
Now, I know, how wisely they were shackled me.

Again I asked my bose. 'Please give me a pen'.
He shouted.
We have set you free only to climb the mountain.
Don't you know? The pen was imprisoning you.
So, from this moment on you should hate the pen.

The pen is poison, a deadly poison.
That had destroyed our sound sleep.
So, we just keep a pen with stagnant ink for formalities.
Because that ink doesn't flow.
They can't move from one place to another.
From one continent to another.
Especially, they can't spread from one mind to another like wildfire.

So, you should decide now.
Whether do you want prison or want the heaven of God.
So, I had nothing else to think about.
So I lit on fire to destroy my luggage that inclusive the bloody holy book.
Then I started to walk.
The footsteps of mine, they can say to my successors.
The survival stories and struggles.

Thabarak Rahman Saahini