We at MEL BRAKE PRESS are proud to present a collection of AZAL MOOLLA
Freedom
The shackles have been cast off.
Chains broken.
A people once squashed,
under the jackboot of Apartheid,
are free.
Free at last!
Freedom came on the 27th day in that April of 1994.
Freedom from prejudice.
From institutionalised racism.
From being relegated to second-class citizens.
Freedom came and we danced.
We cried.
We ululated as we elected
our revered Mandela.
President Nelson Mandela. Our very own beloved 'Madiba'.
Black and white and brown and those in-between.
All hues of this rainbow nation,
rejoiced as we breathed in the air of freedom and democracy.
Today we pause.
We remember.
We salute.
The brave ones whose sacrifices made this day possible,
on that 27th day of April,
18 years ago.
Today we dance.
We sing.
We ululate.
We cry.
Tears of joy and tears of loss.
Of remembrance and of forgiveness.
Of reconciliation and of memories.
Today we pause.
We acknowledge the tasks ahead.
The hungry.
The naked.
The destitute.
Today we reaffirm,
that promise of freedom.
From want.
From hunger.
From eyes without promise.
Today we also wish to reflect.
On unfulfilled promises.
On the proliferation of greed.
On the blurring of the ideals of freedom.
Today we say.
We will take back the dream.
We will renew the promise.
We will not turn away.
Today we pledge.
To stand firm.
To keep the pressure turned on.
To remind those in the corridors of power,
that we the people need to savor the fruits of the tree of freedom.
And till that time,
when all shall share in the bounty of democracy,
We shall remain vigilant,
and strong.
And we shall continue,
to struggle.
And to sing out loud,
"We shall overcome".
Lost
Where do I go,
barren within, stranded without.
While,
wasting words,
on tattered verse.
Lost.
Where do I go,
when I doubt,
who I am.
Lost.
Treading hopelessly,
while the winter air,
cuts like shears,
leaving me,
to wallow in infinite fears,
as truth like fire sears.
Hoping,
forever hoping,
that the misty mind,
may dispel foggy doubts,
so that finally,
in peace,
may this lost man,
dry his salty tears.
The Vagabond Within
I slip through cracks,
my memories dimming,
as thoughts of yesterday swirl,
down dreary tunnels of decay,
into the chasm that is today.
Waiting, forever waiting,
to belong, yearning to fit in,
taking solace in transient cities,
wearing masked faces,
tailored for fleeting places.
I stagger each night, lost,
wasting precious breaths,
drawn from a lifetime of sighs,
no consolation from the cruel,
while donning the skin of the fool.
Wrestling unseen demons,
dreading tomorrow as it nears,
ripping away my shallow smile,
withering into a hollow shell,
seeking comfort in everyday hell.
I stumble, I falter,
words slipping off pen onto paper,
fickle doleful murmurs of distaste,
at the gradual emptying of a soul,
needing to shed it all to be whole.
Stray dogs savage each other inside,
a body lathered in deep muck,
soiling my pants, wetting my being,
whistling promises that turn into lies,
the plaintive songs of a clown that cries.
I am momentary,
a soap bubble on the breeze,
just smoke clearing into thin air,
wasting away in my cocooned lair,
too old to change, too young to care.
Lost
Where do I go,
barren within, stranded without.
While,
wasting words,
on tattered verse.
Lost.
Where do I go,
when I doubt,
who I am.
Lost.
Treading hopelessly,
while the winter air,
cuts like shears,
leaving me,
to wallow in infinite fears,
as truth like fire sears.
Hoping,
forever hoping,
that the misty mind,
may dispel foggy doubts,
so that finally,
in peace,
may this lost man,
dry his salty tears.
The Vagabond Within
I slip through cracks,
my memories dimming,
as thoughts of yesterday swirl,
down dreary tunnels of decay,
into the chasm that is today.
Waiting, forever waiting,
to belong, yearning to fit in,
taking solace in transient cities,
wearing masked faces,
tailored for fleeting places.
I stagger each night, lost,
wasting precious breaths,
drawn from a lifetime of sighs,
no consolation from the cruel,
while donning the skin of the fool.
Wrestling unseen demons,
dreading tomorrow as it nears,
ripping away my shallow smile,
withering into a hollow shell,
seeking comfort in everyday hell.
I stumble, I falter,
words slipping off pen onto paper,
fickle doleful murmurs of distaste,
at the gradual emptying of a soul,
needing to shed it all to be whole.
Stray dogs savage each other inside,
a body lathered in deep muck,
soiling my pants, wetting my being,
whistling promises that turn into lies,
the plaintive songs of a clown that cries.
I am momentary,
a soap bubble on the breeze,
just smoke clearing into thin air,
wasting away in my cocooned lair,
too old to change, too young to care.
Into silence
A million mouths sewn shut,
with willing complicity.
Knowing.
Seeing,
and smelling the rotting carcass.
Of humanity.
Yet the voices are still.
A million tongues that have long ceased to wag.
Under starless skies,
beneath the empty cocoon of night,
consciences deftly flee.
Into silence.
A million consciences scurry away.
Tunneling into dark places,
where decency lies dead.
Into silence.
Where there is no sound,
where feet dare not tread.
Afzal Moolla's bio:
Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa.
He then travelled wherever his parent's work took them and he still feels that he hasn't stopped travelling.
Afzal works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic - his 12 year old cat.
Afzal Moolla's bio:
Afzal Moolla was born in Delhi, India while his parents were in exile, fleeing Apartheid South Africa.
He then travelled wherever his parent's work took them and he still feels that he hasn't stopped travelling.
Afzal works and lives in Johannesburg, South Africa and shares his literary musings with his most strident critic - his 12 year old cat.
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