Blurb: Kalash sapping our sap is a refugee week throwback poem by Charlotte Hourdin. Read it, and you will be thrown into a migrant’s journey, kindly rocked by a spun metaphor of natural displacement and rootlessness.
I used to plunge my calloused hands into fruitful soil
As I would dig into my past, dive into my roots.
I used to crop dew-wet wheat with a sharpened scythe
As Kalashs sliced my life into
They disembowelled our environment,
Tore earth’s plants out of its ground,
each time draining us a bit more
of our liveliness,
Sapping our sap.
No more fruitful soil,
No more feathery leaves.
No more origins,
No more joyous progeny,
Only dust and trumpet sound.
What did I say? Oh no sorry I meant bullet sound.
Bullet countdown. Our daily music.
Our daily morning music, our daily noon music, our daily evening music.
With only an empty bundle full of hope.
I had to hide, to run, to lie, to buy.
I was captured and freed.
‘Till a sweet hand
Sprang up and took me to her land.
It was layered with past bullet sound
But the upper crust was fresh and fertile.
I try to learn how they grow crops here,
I try to learn how they use their tongues to make their clatter intelligible.
But it still sounds like
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