A Wake-up Call by Hein Min Tun

I thought the dead were those indifferent

with exemption granted. In a world too small

devoid of the resplendent warmth

you receive on yours, she breathes,

relying on the days which tell her to finish them,

occasionally mistaking sighs for inhales and exhales.

In her irises akin to worn-out mirror surfaces,

there have been deaths like fallen cosmoses.

Dear women, you claim on social media, so

many of you that you espouse, endorse,

and succor your gender replicas with worded

angst exuding an undercurrent of power;

the flavor of your diction imbued with efficacy,

when the news of war widows goes viral;

when the media interviews your forsaken fellows

and fortunate survivors from bleak purgatories.

Did you ever wipe out their tears

or sample the shards of pain they shedded?

If not, I understand. Sympathy has become

the limit price one can afford on this sliced map.

But, let me ask you, my dear women,

did you ever sweep aside any one of you

or stealthily from you, little by little,

after she publicized her scribblings, draped

in the hue of gloom; after she shared her

frequent sentiments of a disagreeable taste

for each one of you to reciprocate with

a scrumptious piece of your heart?

Didn't you ever have the thought

that it is you all that dug those dark furrows

below her eyes and reversed her bio clock?

Dear women, have you forgotten your

uproarious vows and promised ideals?

Are you still looking far over your virtual homes

to vouchsafe your twin heart, your twin blood,

your twin flesh, your clone, your very you

the world you see?

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