Poetry: An ode to the country of red roads

Image Credit: Screen grab from Maratukarata's Channel, Red Road by David Swallow, Jr.

I walk on a road,
That is red,
Cause the asphalt,
Was taken off our hearts.

The path to our local cemetery,
Is a beautiful crimson,
Paved by the dreams of youth,
From a forgotten conflict.

The red you see, on my walls,
Is not paint, but color taken off,
From the cheeks,
Of children, in misfortune.

The knobs on my doors,
Appear this way cause,
Many a bloody hand,
Tried to open them.

I look out through,
My windows and,
The whole world appears scarlet,
Cause that’s the way we see it.

Streams colored vermilion,
Are an everyday sight,
The water we drink,
Reminds us of who we are!

In our fields of burgundy,
Saffron flowers tell you a tale,
Of love, spun on wheels,
Of divine freedom.

Deep in our bosoms,
Of high solitude,
The lava of love,
Shines bright, like a ruby.

Marooned we may be,
On our island of maroon,
But the fire in our eyes,
Will burn your lust one day.

These shackles of slavery,
Will break apart cause,
Iron does eventually,
Turn a rusty red.

The bricks that make up,
Our houses, were burned,
To achieve a color,
For this very Godly reason.

Yes! I see red,
The red of beautiful roses,
Nurtured by a martyr’s blood,
With fragrance from his Muslim soul.


Ejaz Raboodi Gosani is an MD Doctor, and an Alumni of the SKIMS Medical College, Bemina.

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