Poetry By Faruk Ahmed Roni

Women of Ash and Fire

Her body cracked like dry earth under the weight of labour,
The sun drips from her back in molten sweat.
Yet, even in her womb, dreams stir,
though the birthing room is a hush of shadows,
A night that does not turn to dawn.

Hammer kisses cheek of stone
sparks rise like fleeting prayers.
Fire licks at her calloused hands,
history carves itself into their skin,
A scripture of blood and silence.

She moves in pain of dream
A bargain sealed in hushed exchanges,
A crimson bloom in a garden long abandoned.
In her navel, a volcano smolders
in her breath, the scent of blaze.

This world swallows her whole
A fish stripped of water,
a night without a name.
Dreams crumble like dry bread,
devoured by the hunger of unyielding stoves.

I speak of those women
ashes of forgotten pyres,
ghosts of a hunger unnamed,
a river that flows not with water,
but with the memory of metal and smoke.

They were never called women with love.
Only fire remembers their names.

Copyright@Faruk Ahmed Roni