I Was Not Born a Ghost (The Eternal Cry of the Unbroken)

Mottakeenur Rehman

 

I was not blind—until they named my dawn their night.
I was not shattered—until they drew the line, called it right.

I was not a slave—until they priced my breath in gold.
I was not mute—until they taught me their tongue, then sold

my own for scrap. I was not poor—until they came
with coins for my soil, left me begging in the flame

of their progress. I was not armed—until they branded
my hands weapons, my child collateral, my home expanded.

I was not hate—until they salted my wounds with prayer.
I was not hunted—until they built a world where my air

is a permit, my skin a warrant, my blood debate.
Who are they? The same hands—different mask, same hate:

the census-taker counting my worth in dust,
the priest blessing bombs with Psalms of lust,

the general mapping my veins as borders,
the banker trading my grief for quarters.

They carve their chaos deep—claim it divine.
Yet here I stand: unyielding, undrowned, mine.

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Comments +

Comments5

  • sorenbarrett

    All seem the same be they politicians, physicians, technicians doesn't matter the name. Religion or any institution they are all the same. Good write

  • Mourgana of the Fey

    Hello,

    This seemed a piece that was aimed to balance the scales between war and peace. Where motives behind war often have nothing to do with the human side each piece of peace is eternally forgotten though through poetry shards of it , perhaps intentions can be sowed as kernels. Ink can send out ripples, even small ripples can find union within ink and within poems and poetry, I enjoyed the read

  • Tony36

    BRAVO

  • Poetic Licence

    An interesting and thought provoking write regarding the differences between war and piece and the reasons for it. War is always remembered, peace or wanting of it is so easily forgotten, but we have to keep sowing those seeds and hope some take route, enjoyed the read

  • arqios

    Here is a cry carved from the marrow of history; a poetic reckoning with colonisation, erasure, and resistance. Your poetic speaker bears witness to how identity is not just erased but overwritten, priced, policed, then reborn—fiercer. 🕊️🙏🏻



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