by Ian Goh

 

O sing me a song

of rows of women warriors,

waiting for their clarion cry:

“You may begin!”

before barrelling into battle,

scouring over sheets of paper

clawing at hair, 

biting at nails,

bled dry from the abuse.

Their heads propped upon

lonely grey hulls, 

sifting through a sea of knowledge,

eager to make landfall, find salvation

or the executioner’s ruler.

 

O lull me a bawdy ballad,

my multiple charming prince of choice, 

who sweeps me off my feet

at total displacement over total time,

saves me from Sir Stamford Raffles,

the savage Stalin,

the covalent bonds that bind me to my bench,

the grammar Nazis and punctuation police,

the well-dressed wardens 

tap tap tapping feet along the aisles, 

their eyes boring into us,

like bored hawks,

dreaming of flying away

from this red house of horrors.

 

O whisper to me your worries,

the soft What is this question?,

Die liao die liao die liao,

only fifteen minutes left

to recall 

the long-forgotten memories

of the shade of sky,

the smell of grass on a Saturday morn,

raindrops running through fingers,

red roses swaying,

kiss of a sunset,

sweet taste on the tongue

of freedom.