Harun Shukri Poems

We are sons of guns
Once sons of men.
Now, dutiful to our guns
Our hearts is daubed with beautiful hatred
...

How do you value those who touched you
Where none has ever touched?
including yourself
those who have drunk from the streams
...

What happens to hope when all hope
Is gone and you still hope?
When you wish and the wish
Granted is more than your wish?
...

In front of a mirror
My eyes stare at me
And my own eyes stares back to myself
A hand's finger touches a cheek
...

Nothing in this world
Past or old
Foretold or yet to unfold
Remains untold
...

And then....
My rosary splits open
scattering fragments of my dreams and hopes in all directions.
my index finger retrieves every bead that falls within grasp
...

We cheered as he was handed the seat.
His words so soothing and sweet
He swore Ethiopia will develop and grow.
War and famine, high and low
...