Humulkhair Abdulmumeen Poems

We are children of
neither relatives nor relations
that tries to be streetwise
regardless of our various
...

Oh! my dark woman
moulded from the
beautifully baked clay
and shaped in a
...

Am I a writer
Who pens in a paper to perk things up
Scribing sceneries on sheets
Using the might of inks to mould minds?
...

The word called home is
Like a dimension of existence
where i spring from to represent
where I come from
...

‎It filled my hands, the dust of yesterday
‎Dust of memories that cannot be blown away
‎Filling my ears, with whimpers of pain
‎Tying my legs, no freedom I could gain
...

The sky is ablaze with scorching sun
Burning, and the cloud shields not
Hitting hard the ground
leaving leaves to wither.
...