Alejandro Hormúz

Accomplished so much with little,
All worthless with this wound.
The wound which I created age 16,
The wound which bled age 27.
From México we left, but that
Wasn’t the first time I separated family.
Bautista, my brother and I, worked for nothing.
I had to leave the field, run, but he didn’t come.

I found a job which payed in River Spoon,
Simply brewed the morning elixir for the police station,
Simply meaningless, yet nothing to fear.
I arrived every dawn, I departed every dusk.
I tasked myself in the police,
Took up the Sheriff’s Badge once he retired.
A new day, a case like never before, or rather CASES.
A line of murders in this city.
Each of the four victims,
Five fingers I had, four fingers theirs.
Though they had five,
He, the murderer, stole the fifth.

The first murder, in a bar fight,
The second murder, in an argument,
The third murder, in the midst of a bribe,
The fourth murder, but not the finale, a personal grudge.

That night, I waited for the fifth.
But I missed it for a sight, 11 years old.
Through the gate, He and she left,
But the hair, his tone, mi hermano Bautista, my brother.

Should I follow, should I not?
Was not question.
My heart follows its,
Without caution, I surrender and follow Him.

Yet who was she?
I couldn’t help to wonder.
So much I wanted to say to Him,
Yet so little of Him I knew of what to say.

It was quite dark,
But where I could only see him, it was only darker.
Why couldn’t I see her,
She was no more.

She was the fifth murder,
He the lone murderer.
Bautista, for the first time in 11 years, I pronounced his name.
Alejandro, his first word.

“When did I teach you to kill, my brother?”
“When were you there, Alejandro?
Did I kill 11 years ago? Surely not?
But now, how are you a part of me? How, Alejandro?”

“Who taught you to kill?
It wasn’t yourself!”
“It was fate!
Fate which left me helpless, fate which left me choice-less.”

And then fate ended its story of mine,
With the physical pistol of His,
Which I never regarded to disband.
And my life was now finished. Y mi vida terminó.

I’m a young, 17-year old poet, drawing inspiration from the likes of Urdu masters Mirza Ghalib and Faiz Ahmed Faiz and famed American poet Emily Dickinson. Along with English, I usually write poems in Urdu and one can read some more of my verses at urduahsaas.wordpress.com

If you would like to have your work published in The Poetry Bar send your poem, a few words about yourself and the link to your blog and Instagram account (if you have one) to the e-mail poetrybar1@gmail.com 

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