Wasteland II (with apologies to TS
Eliot) by Azly Rahman
I woke up with the sound of boots marching outside my
window British soldiers! British soldiers! They are here!
I screamed in my dream I was a child worried my Union Jack flag
on my kite is not ready yet to be flown in the fields of
dream where my grandfather secretly brought me to I love
to sketch the grandeur of Stamford Raffles as he majestically stood
over the place I was s born
I saw the red coated ones
outside my window, giving flowers and kissing the forehead
of politicians in Malay hats ... how sweet are the saviours
I screamed in my dream
In one ear Bach's Air on G-String
played In another I hear the ripping of Hendrix's Star Spangled
banner "... give me your hands, your minds, your souls ...
tired masses ..." as i hear Stamford Raffles plead ...
"give me your land, your love .. " i shall give
give your "life liberty and help you pursue
my happiness ..." Ah ... sweet are those words I heard in
between my dreams and the reality I am yet to see.
I was child not yet born That hears these monumentalism of
conversations of history between army boots and Malay headgears
with the word: " a suicidal nation will be sweet"
written in jawi script, borrowed from a land far far away
... as we become postscripts of yet another Grand
Narrative of a the boy with a kite flying Union Jack
born he was not yet as he navigated and directed the wind smiling
he was as the kite yearns to be free like the teeming masses on
the shores of Lazarus