In the dark chambers of my past,
a part of me still calls
from the hollow silence of memory.
I hear the loud silence--
a boy of nine weeping within me,
aching to be a child
in a world painted with lies.
He longs for warmth,
but the nights were burning cold,
lit only by anger,
shadowed by loss.
What does happiness feel like?
Is it the warmth that lingers
after the lash of pain?
Does it give joy while hiding hope
in chambers of uncertainty?
Does it smell like petrichor,
when tears water the dusty road of hope?
Does it taste like the leftover potato-leaf sauce,
served in the morning to an empty stomach?
Does it sound like the womb’s first lullaby—
the primal hum that rocks a child to peace?
My nights are quiet,
yet they thunder with grief.
Even as I rest on the softness of my bed,
my heart drifts back
to the jagged stones of yesterday.
It seems…
the past is not behind me--
it breathes, whispering me into sleeplessness,
then shakes me awake
into oblivion.
©Amadu Wurie Jalloh
02/09/25
