Blood

By Hussain Kachwala

Blood. We've seen it, we've sniffed it, we've spilt it, the sweet nectar of the flesh that runs richer than  gold. 

My tribe is that of blood, that which lives in the soil of the old continent. 

From the scorching deserts of Iraq to the rainy side of the Western Ghats, through the confluence of  civilisations, the roots of my culture's tree are laden with blood. 

Blood. It's what I see. 

Blood. It's all I am. 

Blood. It's all we'll be. 

Blood. My legacy. 

And as I look to the sky and converse with the Creator of this cosmos, I ask for mercy. Mercy upon those yet unborn, innocent to life in the crimson flood of the mortal world. 

For if I take a dagger to my flesh and present to you my eye in a paten, my nerves in a chalice, will  you share with me the burden of the horrors to whom we bear witness? 

Oh Lord above, witness the thunderous silence of the crowd as the orchestra takes centre stage upon  this circus of a home we call Earth. 

For the crowd knows the cost of flesh but chooses to speak in silence. Conversing in tongues whose  spit reeks no smell, for in these lands, Justice truly is blind. 

Oh the diamonds you wear shine on your skins like the stars that adorn the tapestry of the sky. Let  your synapses be unnerved as I inject my queries into the air; 

Upon whose back did we mark the lacerations, the bruises, the abuse necessary to yield such celestial  harvest? 

Hiding in the pages of the books you'll never read, you turn your backs to the truth, for it does not  mask its scars. 

The Maker detests judgment being cast, though against grander crimes, I shall afford myself this  Lesser Sin. 

So come now! Feast your eyes upon the blood spewing from the traumatised flesh of the soul-bearers,  left to scavenge and starve in the rivers of unchallenged crime. 

Does one not inherit the divine right to life if they are born a certain skin? Or does that divinity only  exist when in possession of a certain sum of silver?

Or are we yet so wise that we shall distinguish the bones of a king and slave through mere sight? Divinity either exists or is null, and we are mere fools who treasure hubris as gold. 

And if I must share my title in humanity with those who defile the sacred blood, I shall drain myself  of all life, denounce my origins completely. 

I divest all invested time, strip myself of all titles, turn my back to all allegiances and beg forgiveness  for eternity. 

Commune with me again once we have found the light. 

And if the world does drown in the blood it has spilt, I wish the next for those whose eyes tell stories  words cannot portray to be a tad softer. 

And if humanity truly is the curse behind our own slaughter, I wish for us to shred it all, and enter  metamorphosis, as I pray to the Maker to hand us a gentler innate truth. 

Yet words have fleeting nature, and my time 'tis but a fraction, so I beg, open your eyes with mine  own to what is true. 

Blood. It's what I see. 

Blood. It's all I am. 

Blood. It's all we'll be. 

Blood. My legacy.

By Hussain Kachwala