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Chokehold

Jayanti Yadav of Montsame News Agency pens down a despairing slam poem written by a teenage girl who catastrophically lost her father to the brutalities of the Song Dynasty


Bàba, 

It's hard to have faith nestled under a dynasty where it too is a battlefield,

But I pray that there is a heaven you are delivered to;

Because the Machiavellian melodies of the Song Dynasty will never reach you there.


Without a flinch, without a blink,

Leaving thresholds of violence unveiled 

They slaughtered you.

They pigmented your logical demand to submit to the Mongols, 

with hues of betrayal. 

When will you wake up Baba? 

How long will you be camouflaged in this bed of roses? 

Must death always find reasons to stay alive?


Lineages have faded into history

Enveloped within the Song dynasty 

Their prison promises gnaw at our being.

They say war is a crime

Then allow me,

 to willingly sin.


Their blank eyes will stare listlessly at the love they made me lose.

I have eternally been a casualty of their anger.

The citizens stretched their arms whole, accumulating every ounce of loyalty within their fragile, fragile palms

and this empire, built on buried skeletons, continuously devours them whole. 

They can tackle the consequences, but they cannot escape them. 


I can smell the rays of their sinister sun burning the hardwood floors beneath my cold, cold feet.

The cauldron expires of its fire, my loyalty to them has expired of its innocence 

Let the bereaved inside.

Let the mourning commence.


Love.

Love is ancient. 

When the Mongols lay their gilded feet on our barren lands 

It will be a liberated land, it will smell like home. 


Hatred is ancient, 

It firmly stands at the threshold of humanity 

Let our humanity be our wreckage. 


This land is a temple of hatred

A river tarnishing its own path

With tears bleeding dry each evening, 

it culminates in a withering heart. 

Bàba, for how long will our homeland be a stranger?


An ache in me burgeons relentlessly,

as an extinguished spark whimpers underneath. 

My lotus feet carry the anguish of their birth 

and tremble at the imagination of the loss of the Great Khans. 


Songs birthed this destruction,

Now voyage the collapse. 

I’m weary of constantly repeating myself, 

of yelling my throat to fatigue.

This mind is not the only bystander to the horrors, 

But I take them with me everywhere I go. 


This one is for the men, women, and children

Who have lost every inch of trust in institutions 

who nurture the same hopeless void within their palms 

who mother the same urge for revolution in their hands, 

who recognize the sweet laugh of these emperors

Shimmering from the traces of our tears.


Survival exists only on the horizon of its departure. 

Our autonomy will be the mere gap between those hunters, and us prey. 

I will be seen. I will be hunted.


Let the Mongols obliterate us.

Let the Mongols lliberate us.

Let me drool at the thought of being free.

Let me drool at the imagination of a home.


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