Exile Poem by Aman Saa

You may have yielded to me
But a conqueror, I was never
You often wear the air
You often dream in vivid colours
Yet you cannot make a museum
or host an exhibition of
all my and your empty possessions,
some of which claim to be beautiful even.


I am as much filled as much desperate
In faraway places, I have seen
portraits of hope treating
travellers' sight.
We cannot, comrade, we cannot.
Heart has never taught us to grasp
The disability to limit the sky paves the path to eternity also.
The fragrance of incense has purposes
It slowly disappears
Leaving you with an imagery of waves,
Disappearance drawing its own sketch
Articulate for you but existing unmarked
What is the incense for you now,
the incense itself and the waves which are no more
or the fragrance, sacrificed for the sake of an orphan faith?
What shall be the longings of the heart in a coffin?
Whom shall you love to be conquered by?
I will pass away, after all my attempts
to trace where I belong
I may end up never finding the history,
the ground to hold on, still I shall rather be free, naked in search
than believe in a conclusion without origin.

To be yours, oh life,
To be yours I shall seek you
Lanes after lanes and beyond the changing hues,
in the lost perfumes of time.
In the vacant possessions
shall be my will, inheritance for the one who comes next.
Letters encrypted in the walls of this darkness looking for rays.
A youth in an exile assassinated,
"Freedom was what he left behind"
"Last rites yet to be performed"
Milestone be marked, moment after moment.
Conquering was never for life.
Unless it finds its shore, the ocean
however wide may be its horizon is homeless.
And if the two shores of the ocean are not apart
The ocean is but a valley of sands.
A canvas of another desert.