When we were kids, our english teacher taught us that war is an abstract noun, we believed her. We were not sure what to believe then. Father told us that kids are listeners, they are not to ask questions. So we swallow whatever older people told us as a rule to the labyrinthine path of life. But as we grow up, we observe the functional shift in english categories, how nouns are conversed into verbs, how war has become a giant millipede walking into all pores of our lives with a million thorny legs, how war has found a way to damn everything sacred we do.
Now all faces of our lives are at war. To have a roof is war, to have a blanket is war. So we inject the sun into our veins, to summer up our nights, that we may not die of cold.
Now, to speak freely is war, as our lips are glued in silence by destructive political muzzles.
Here, to have a meal is war. We do not ask for a good meal, yet we only ask to flood away the debris of hunger from our entrails.
Everywhere, we are cursed, to walk roomed under domes of fear, when home and worship houses places that should be sanctuaries have become war ships, captained by love-dead clerics.
it is war now,
it is war here,
it is war everywhere.
'cos our bodies have become a dark constellation of crisis, like the thigh of a homeless woman seeking shelter in a land of fornicators.
