In Marked Territory
In the raw expanse of land where rivers sigh,
marked by the shadows of cats and dogs,
with each puddle of yellow reminding us
of lives once lived, hearts bound to the earth,
clinging to dreams and dirt, tattered trails of hope.
Here, in this ground—a theater of wars,
hands bloodied, crushed under the weight
of ambitions framed in stones, lives
shatter along a barbed wire, cutting jagged maps,
while mothers cradle lost futures in their arms.
Children’s laughter, a distant echo,
as lilacs bloom defiantly
against the past’s relentless hands.
Still, the weight of time presses heavy;
cliffs of doubt rise, unyielding,
and the sun, despite shadows, spills gold
on the backs of workers bending on fields.
Behind fences, gardens grow wild,
the heart of kin bleeding cinnamon scents,
and oh, if the moon could grasp!—
kneeling in a field of sorrow,
each quiet mother whispers a prayer
for peace to sweep as breeze through reeds,
as stars that drown the sky in quiet dreams.
Yet it spins on—this world, this home,
a canvas painted with fire and hope,
woven tightly with the threads of struggle.
And just as ashes bestow rise to life,
the phoenix blinks, reborn—
after the storms of blood and soil,
by the lake where the hummingbirds dance,
we will rise again, unbroken,
finding light in the whispers of trees,
where the fight for future spreads as a smile.
In the land where borders bleed,
a marked territory, a silence follows—
where echoes of ancient men
hang in the air
as smoke from a distant fire,
where wolves guard the lines with ferocity,
their eyes bright, restless,
and the sweet songs of birds
turn to warnings,
the sharp notes of a faraway war.
Fields once painted in gold
become shadows in the wake of lost souls,
children left behind in a cluttered world of
barbed wires, twisted metal,
and heavy hearts cradling dreams
of a garden, of lilacs dancing
in the warmth of an untouched sun.
Strangers mark their territories
as thirsty dogs—
a trail of liquid gold runs deeper.
Men sharpen elbows in the street,
scramble for patches of earth
to throw their flag, their faith, their will,
trampling roses to barricade the gardens,
forgetting—there's gracious and atrocious
in every religion, and blood
stains porcelain feet.
Women cradle hope,
fold it into the elbows of their children,
yet bombs rain down, splitting innocence,
destroying schools cloaked in chalk and laughter,
while prayers whisper across broken roofs,
echoing in crimson sky, in stained hands.
Terror sows seeds—
will we bury in grief,
or bloom in our common spirit,
for hope, once fallen, is not yet gone
but rising, roots strained
through the cracks of a heart.
And as suns dip below ruined hills,
we reach across our marked spaces—
to beg, to listen, to fold at the edges,
to find the friends hidden
amidst the fear, of making soil rich again
with rivers of laughter, the cloak of smoke
wrapping love's voice, calling soldiers home.
With one pulse,
one beast of burden wandering the epicenter,
raw and alive.
We remember: that humanity was once a broader shade—
let’s paint again,
blend, embrace, and guard
what preciousness can bloom?
In the dawn's soft breath,
dogs mark their turf beneath the pines,
urine tracing lines, as if to claim the world,
fierce like colonizers crying out for land,
buildings crumbling where children played,
blood painting the streets,
a curtain of smoke smothering stars.
Homes turned to ruins, history erased,
the laughter of kin swallowed by silence
where echoes of dreams once danced
in gardens humming lilac scents,
now filled with the whispers of ghosts,
their eyes searching for a way back,
for peace buried under barbed wire and fences.
But even in ruin, life dares to rise—
a child's smile, the warmth of a mother’s cradle,
tender as a bee weaving through blooms,
while warriors stand ready, hearts battling hope,
knights for both love and loss,
yet, amidst this earth’s broken skin,
every breath tells a tale of survival.
As boundaries blur, worlds collide,
the cadence of sorrow swells beneath our skin,
and for all the darkness,
a flicker of light remains—raw and underlying,
a promise that one day,
we might find our way home again.
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2024
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