Take Me Home

An introduction to a foreign language. A language ingrained in the souls of different men from different cultures. A language known as poetry.

Over 1400 years ago, Arabia’s source of media was no more than poetry. The market place of Mecca consisted of men who were skilled with words and knew the affairs of their people. They stood in the center of the marketplace and declared their victory on the battlefield. At other times, a poet would stand and bring together words unknown to man, illustrating his love for a woman. Their words magic but these men weren’t magicians.

I dare not claim to be among the ranks of such men. Men like Suhail Ibn Amr who possessed a gift of speech. Instead I flip through the pages of history and recall the memory of such courageous, poetic men. Men that I envy.

Men that describe the burdens of the world and its joys. Who speak about love and hate, victory and defeat.  

Recently, I was introduced to the words of a poet. His words, raw. In addition, his words were an extension of a deep feeling I conceal within my heart.

This man is a poet from my time.

Perhaps I shall never meet him, even if he exists within me. We are strangers living ever so near.

He spoke about our Motherland and I listened. His words flowing to the gates of eternity to find their place of rest.

His words landed in my Poetic Justice.

Take me home where memory wonders
Through the land where I belong
Take me where the heathers blooming
And where hearts of art resound in poetry song

Take me home where the sea’s is raging
Where mountains are foggy
Sisters crying and where death told
Of young brothers uncounted

Take me home where hills are burning and
Poverty is thee golden trophy
Take me home- where freedom rings
In the morning hours
I hear her voice calling me
And driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday

 But my feet’s are unknowing
I’m at the end of long rope
Loathing the air pollution
Propaganda and opinionated confusion
Bush pushing us to fight his own war
When my people getting burn by his budget Box
as grab the pen to write this paper
Standing on the threshold
With my eyes wide open
Fatigue sets in
Emotions are tire
As I set back -in thirst of motherland
That natured my childhood,
Memories flooding into my mind
Of happy home where I once stood
Long seen home-land still afresh
With the fragrance of dust and mud
the sight of cattle salvaging the greenery
the wailing of babies –tender as a flower mud
Oooooh lady liberty –TAKE ME HOME



6 Responses

  1. Bismillah, I feel your pain. Even though I left somalia when i was 4. I feel for them.

    **your talkin about somalia right!**

  2. Assalam

    Yeah I was thinking about Somalia when I posted this but Im sure they’re people from Pakistan or Bangladesh or Arabia who can relate to the pain we feel in our hearts regarding our Motherland.

    I left there when I was four too but Ive been back three times but I feel like…well I cant really explain it through the English language.

    May Allah be with us

  3. ameen.

  4. Hey I just realized after posting Ameen (May Allah Accept) and your name are the exact same spelling. lol.

    *sorry for being weird, but I had to say it.*

  5. Hidaaya, Good observation sis

  6. Asssalamualikum
    Its trye everyone can somehow relate to this….every word i read brings back a flush of emotions
    MashAllah…beautiful writing style brother Ameen

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: