Museum

By Ziniya Al Baha

Erecting another statue to be displayed in the hollowness

among the pangs and the pains,

the hall is getting full of sorrowful cries,

the silenced horrors that have flowed through time

lies in the depths of the wells that were left behind.

Empires were built, and people were killed.

the powerful and greedy have quietened their wills.

Spilling the blood of innocents they've justified their skills.

The murals depict the struggles and the chills,

the glorious revolutions, discriminations, and their drills.

Visitors are chattering but the walls stand still,

while the colours are fading, the clocks still wailing,

the killings never stop, and the injustice prevails at large.

Can I ask them a question? Does this instil something?

The heart remains of stone, and the fire is burning on its own.

An artist never rests, she just weeps.

The art may come and go but the nature remains the same.

Can we blame history when we still do the same?

It's not time that's working but it's fate that's hurting,

the gates are getting rusted, and the roots are getting busted.

She saw her last night walking beside him under the moonlight,

passing through the streets beside the dancing trees.

Laughing her heart out, forgetting all about her past,

he held her hands firmly, whispering lies boldly.

Pleasing her like a doll that acts however he recalls.

The star fell from the sky, burning everything bright.

The winds have changed their mood, the heart never stops it just blooms.

The aesthetic barrenness, the blacks, and the blues.

They all leave their imprints behind silently as you do.

Can I get one last ride? Making this wish can't be right.

He laughs far from this sight making me a fool tonight.

Abusive hands can melt you down if you're craving for that sound.

By Ziniya Al Baha