The Dead of December
The sun has not risen
My father used to play qawwalis on his walkman when we could not sleep in our house made of dust
we had to gain weight so it would not fly away with the wind and now
we have collected so much
we are heaps of dust and we cannot go anywhere
there were all kinds of tales from a past we like to believe in the only time I believe in the existence of a past is when
it rings in my ears like a band of drums
awaiting a procession,
like the feet of men hungry for blood, marching
awaiting another victim,
like a chorus in a play, wailing
even before death has a chance to knock
past is like a memory of footsteps
you already know who is coming
one of the tales told of how eyes could not see the sun
before ears heard the call of prayer
on some mornings in the dead cold of December
the sun does not come at all and I keep thinking of this.
I say the prayer sometimes when I am desperate for the sun hoping it would come but it does not
I think of places where there are no loudspeakers to say the prayer out loud does the sun ever go there to see if someone is waiting
with beads in their hands,
their beads are stained with words that resemble prayers
and prayers that resemble the color of the blood.
sometimes they are forbidden to even see the blood that stains their prayers but their ears are filled with prayers at funerals.
I think of places where
voices that say The Prayer
shiver in a distance
from the coldness of hearts around them,
so much blood going cold
so cold
so cold
so cold
the voices whisper in a distance
the sun looks like a snake sneaking into heaven
shyly, quietly
but he finds himself in hell
the blood has turned into a sea
there is blood in our throats
like there is salt in the sea
eyes see only blood, a sunless sky
when the sun had set in the sea
I think it choked on all the blood and could not return
and when it would, it would tell of
the tales of all blood lost to the sea
My father is not around anymore
but those tales live in my head
and I say my prayers and wait for the sun
in the dead of December.
About the poet:
My name is Dania Siddiq. I am 22 and currently doing my Masters in English Literature. I have always thought that art and poetry have unfailingly proven to be ways to understand ourselves and the world around us, so I would consider myself very lucky if I could spend my life creating art in all its forms.
Instagram: @daniasiddiq_