There in the corner is my father: Old, shivering hands, and a hose Into his nose, Not being able to hold straight A spanner or a rose. He is working to build, he says, A time machine. The metals in the yard Are rusted and bleak. He picks them up, One by one, To choose the one most sleek, To turn it into a gear wheel. This wheel, he says, will steer Us through the dirty and clear Streets of time. If you look out of the sealed window Of our house, You won't see a thing, Just the dust storms, Raging around, Blowing across the barren dry lands. The winds rule Like a tyrant! If you look more closely out of the Lead sealed doors, You will see the cracked dry earth. You might see the monstrous ocean If you travel a bit. But believe me You cannot travel the streets, Without being poisoned by the air, Or being reduced to dust By the outside heat. We don't go out, We grow germs inside to eat. For one, I have known germs as food All my life. But my father talks about Flowers, roots, trees and seeds. I don't know what he talks about! The only thing I know is poetry, Which my father teaches me Whenever he has time From building of his time machine. He said they will understand poetry, It has power to change hearts. It's the only tool that might make them Understand that our lives depend Like cause and effect, On their lives. Last winter- I use seasons' names just to Feel normal and real- Even though it's always summer. So last winter or spring, My brother's bottle of air Got a leak, We didn't notice. The pressure in his bottle Dropped, little by little, We didn't notice, Until his little soul Got out of this Mad Max Fury Road. My father was sad, as he ought to be, And so, he started teaching me poetry. And gathering all pieces of metal In the vicinity. He told me slowly of his grand plans: To go a few years into the past, And recite to my ancestors- My grandfathers and grandmothers- A poetry so cold, About a future so hot! To tell them about how they suffocated My brothers and sisters, With the smoke from their cars. To move them with broken words From a broken future. To bring back to life My brother, Who died choking on air, Like the air that comes out of The exhaust of my father’s To-be time machine. So now he is done. The machine sparkles brightly Just like my father's smile. But before he can touch it He starts shaking, His body free falling. Just before he can exhale Any of the air in his bottle With 2 percent oxygen He finally falls on the floor. Was it the exposure to exhaust? Or something far more? I wake him up but He doesn't breathe anymore Or talk of flowers, roots, trees and seeds He lies still, With only his memory in me, Teaching me poetry, For the eternity. I know what is to be done! I rush into the time machine, Armed with his poetry, I steer those gears, Press the buttons of plastic, Pull the knobs which smell toxic, For a moment I am lost, And then I am spinning, In a spiral of time, I can't feel my arms or legs. I hear the clock's chime In the middle of time, Clean air and water. In the space-time curvature. I spin and thin. In a spiral of time. And now it stops. The spinning. And the thinning. Where am I? Who are you? Are you the ones for whom My father made the time machine And I learnt poetry? Will you listen to me? Listen, dear ancestors, We have no seasons. No air, clean air. Water’s scarce and salty. And heat all toxic. Our streets are dead. Our living get sun rayed. Cancer is our cough and cold. Save us, Cause Summer's coming. My brother's life is dancing in Your courtyard, Or factories, Or maybe your cars: He deserves to know About flowers, roots, trees and seeds. He deserves to breathe. Air.
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Dear Ancestors
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There in the corner is my father: Old, shivering hands, and a hose Into his nose, Not being able to hold straight A spanner or a rose. He is working to build, he says, A time machine. The metals in the yard Are rusted and bleak. He picks them up, One by one, To choose the one most sleek, To turn it into a gear wheel. This wheel, he says, will steer Us through the dirty and clear Streets of time. If you look out of the sealed window Of our house, You won't see a thing, Just the dust storms, Raging around, Blowing across the barren dry lands. The winds rule Like a tyrant! If you look more closely out of the Lead sealed doors, You will see the cracked dry earth. You might see the monstrous ocean If you travel a bit. But believe me You cannot travel the streets, Without being poisoned by the air, Or being reduced to dust By the outside heat. We don't go out, We grow germs inside to eat. For one, I have known germs as food All my life. But my father talks about Flowers, roots, trees and seeds. I don't know what he talks about! The only thing I know is poetry, Which my father teaches me Whenever he has time From building of his time machine. He said they will understand poetry, It has power to change hearts. It's the only tool that might make them Understand that our lives depend Like cause and effect, On their lives. Last winter- I use seasons' names just to Feel normal and real- Even though it's always summer. So last winter or spring, My brother's bottle of air Got a leak, We didn't notice. The pressure in his bottle Dropped, little by little, We didn't notice, Until his little soul Got out of this Mad Max Fury Road. My father was sad, as he ought to be, And so, he started teaching me poetry. And gathering all pieces of metal In the vicinity. He told me slowly of his grand plans: To go a few years into the past, And recite to my ancestors- My grandfathers and grandmothers- A poetry so cold, About a future so hot! To tell them about how they suffocated My brothers and sisters, With the smoke from their cars. To move them with broken words From a broken future. To bring back to life My brother, Who died choking on air, Like the air that comes out of The exhaust of my father’s To-be time machine. So now he is done. The machine sparkles brightly Just like my father's smile. But before he can touch it He starts shaking, His body free falling. Just before he can exhale Any of the air in his bottle With 2 percent oxygen He finally falls on the floor. Was it the exposure to exhaust? Or something far more? I wake him up but He doesn't breathe anymore Or talk of flowers, roots, trees and seeds He lies still, With only his memory in me, Teaching me poetry, For the eternity. I know what is to be done! I rush into the time machine, Armed with his poetry, I steer those gears, Press the buttons of plastic, Pull the knobs which smell toxic, For a moment I am lost, And then I am spinning, In a spiral of time, I can't feel my arms or legs. I hear the clock's chime In the middle of time, Clean air and water. In the space-time curvature. I spin and thin. In a spiral of time. And now it stops. The spinning. And the thinning. Where am I? Who are you? Are you the ones for whom My father made the time machine And I learnt poetry? Will you listen to me? Listen, dear ancestors, We have no seasons. No air, clean air. Water’s scarce and salty. And heat all toxic. Our streets are dead. Our living get sun rayed. Cancer is our cough and cold. Save us, Cause Summer's coming. My brother's life is dancing in Your courtyard, Or factories, Or maybe your cars: He deserves to know About flowers, roots, trees and seeds. He deserves to breathe. Air.