
Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
If I were a kitten
the world would be smitten
but I am a seven year old war-bitten
little honey-eyed girl
Locked up in detention.

Original Artwork by Mariam Sawires
If I were a kitten
the world would be smitten
but I am a seven year old war-bitten
little honey-eyed girl
Locked up in detention.

Original Artwork by MARIAM SAWIRES
I turn, bidding to see life, and whenever I do
I see pain and poverty, hurt and hunger, labour and liquidation
But instead, I adore but these, infinite sensations
I like to descry a wildflower, gentle
I have never seen a flower give birth
But I have seen mothers separated from their offspring
In Spring
I like to touch the lilies and feel their coarse and supple silk
I have never seen a flower make love
But I have seen lovers hung from ropes, forgotten
In Autumn
I like to taste the rainwater left on the bracts overnight
I have never seen a flower so thirsty, it begs to die
But I have seen children ripped by a sniper’s tender bullet and sinter
In Winter
I like to listen to the soft wedding bell melodies created by the petals as they marry the grass
I have never seen snow bury a flower in cold blood
But I have seen powder detonate and deliberately rob the soul of a lover
From next Summer:
I will turn and accept life is full of these unfair stories.
I wish it weren’t like this.
But I’ve learnt these injustices harden my flower.
Does that name ring a bell?
She’s the Muslim Republican casting a spell
On fellow Muslims to vote for Trump, that soulless shell
Arguing Democrats’ policies of same sex marriage will send us all to hell…
Know this, my dear sister: Once you become trapped inside his oppression well
No one will hear your cries for help, no matter how hard God will help you yell.
All you have provided refugees till now are
Unjust looks, acrid smirks and their shroud.
Rancid scum will reek from your conscience
Until history spits you in its pits of the immoral haemorrhoid crowd.
author disclaimer: I’m no journo, so you can’t slap me with $8,000 for your foul, puss-scented visa, if I ever apply for one. I’m just a human thinking about your atrocities out loud.
He sold everything except his dogged shoes, a crumbled pack of cigarettes (which also held a small lighter the shape of a Pepsi bottle) and a backpack, which he didn’t pack, as he had nothing. So he just protected his smokes inside his old brown leather jacket, which he’d stolen from a neighbour’s house after their apartment block flitted during a new military game called ‘Strafe’ version 16.
Finally, he’d fled Monsieur Tyranny to Europe. But the rancid smell of oppression bruised his nose harder than a coke overdose as soon as he got there.

Good Muslim Boy published by Hardie Grant; book cover design by Mark Campbell; weaving by Cathy Tipping
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