Sunday, 20 January 2013

Poem From Malala (To The Men Who Tried To Assassinate Her in Pakistan)

                                                                                              Imagine my death,
                                                                          every reminder of my assassination
                                                             would hurt the blood
                                                                                              in your stupid hands,
                                                            I will make sound
                                         with all that blood
                                                                       noise the night, until the country
                                                   invents a new condition
                                                   of weather, where clouds
                                             the shape of Pakistan
                                        are not as high and out            of   reach 
                                        as a girls education -

                                                                  every woman
                                      under this sky  will begin to rise -                      
                            my voice will shoot every bolt of my pain
                       to un-secret my death. When it rains
                                          it is the sound of my bones       
                                                            and the sky turning
                                    grey and cold as your bullet in my face,
   and the dirt in the black ground growing teeth

   and you will be sorry to take away    the life of books
                                      and the life of me,
                  a little girl who just wanted school.
You should have kept the blood
    warm    in my feet,
       if you did not want me  to    carry   my     story
across the desert                          the border
                               the ocean
                                                    as a book you cannot burn.


  1. great poem, what made you chose this form?

  2. It's the shape of the country as it appears on the map.