Since the story broke abut African migrants forcibly dying off the coast of Libya, abandoned by NATO’s humanitarian mission, so many trite remakes have been made. The most common is some variation of, “I am reduced to silence”, or better, “what can I do, over there is so far away, I feel so lucky here?” etc. In the face of these remarks I am posting two poems from Faiz Ahmed Fiaz. Here is the link to the story about the migrants. Below are the poems. So speak.
Speak, your lips are free.
Speak, it is your own tongue.
Speak, it is your own body.
Speak, your life is still yours.
See how in the blacksmith’s shop
The flame burns wild, the iron glows red;
The locks open their jaws,
And every chain begins to break.
Speak, this brief hour is long enough
Before the death of body and tongue:
Speak, ’cause the truth is not dead yet,
Speak, speak, whatever you must speak.
If they snatch my ink and pen,
I should not complain,
For I have dipped my fingers
In the blood of my heart.
I should not complain
Even if they seal my tongue,
For every ring of my chain
Is a tongue ready to speak