Epilogues (5)

Power believes its own fabrication that epilogues are definite. Oppression, restraint and annihilation of courageous people are classified as accidents, because admitting the truth might cause the unwanted insurrection.

Instead, liars whose only staunch belief is the lure of capitalism appear on pristine screens, dressed in immaculate suits complete with a mask for the undesirable occasion of pathetic apology. They express sorrow at the murders that are described as accidents. Soon, the masks adhere comfortably to their faces, and the puppets forget even the texture of their skin.

I am thinking of whether in all these years, the companero and the rebel singer amalgamated their voices to the patriotic cry they acted upon. Whether their bullet riddled bodies found solace in the earth that reminds them how ideals can never be murdered. And, in my mind, I pay homage to the two epitomes of revolution, and turn to the solace in the written words of the loyal companero on the island of contradictory landscapes.

Epilogues (4)

Years ago, in the masses of land below the island of contradictory landscapes, freedom was murdered in the name of democracy.

Freedom took on the apparition of a rebel singer, whose involvement in dissolving the lies spread by power was portrayed as treason. It was an era when music was dangerous and words hastened to extend their definition to all segments of society. Only the puppets in power feared words. So they ensured their safety by silencing the author.

Once upon a time, the puppets adorned with power captured the revolutionary singer, who scented the air with recollections accompanied by music. The puppets retaliated by puncturing his body with bullets and dumping him into the streets.

Strains of his voice singe the quiet atmosphere and, suddenly, there seems to be no distance between the rebel singer and the companero who lived the cry that roused the masses into active patriotism. It seems they both embraced their destinies, in the same manner the revolutionary singer might have sung about his death ...

The Politics of Power (3)

The island that elaborates its identity with a confused spectrum repudiates its obligation towards its citizens. It regales its population with the relics of greed, imposes a culture of alienation that culminates in the parody of democratic elections, and expects the nation to celebrate a victory that will not suit anyone but the assimilating herd entitled 'the elite'.


Perhaps the source of greatest pride for a democratically elected parliament is the security surrounding the elected puppets. Revolutions have been relegated to history, and revolutionaries are branded as traitors for daring to rebel against oppression.


The revolutionaries on the island of contradictory landscapes seem to distant to emulate ...

The Politics of Power (2)

The survival of power depends on multitudes of minds that do not thrive on the art of questioning. When politics shelter beneath the canopy of indoctrinating and coercing people into abandoning language and philosophy, the people in power rejoice over the victory of avarice.



Elections are won by fraudulent promises - a country warped into fanatically supporting political parties that have failed the promise of stability. The country's population fails to realise that parliament is not the solution to its problem if need, neither is it a supreme body that provides solutions for exploited workers.



Parliament is a cosy nest where puppets perform according to profit. It is also a place where ideals are degraded, revolutionaries silenced by dictatorial rule and the perfect setting for the political spectrum to be shaken into a mass of murky colours. Having the power of a seat in parliament means that left and right embrace each other with an ease that does not befit such radical opposition.



But parliament is also the place where opposition can mellow itself into a farce, appeasing those gullible enough to vote with reassurances of the party reaching out to its followers and critics. When the left is only too willing to court the right, all that remains of socialism is an ideal that does not fit into progressive politics.



It is shameful that leftist opposition parties can still shelter under the revolutionary concept of socialism, when all they do is seek ways of obtaining the majority at the expense of betrayal.

The Scent of Nostalgia (5)

Quoting a companera, "I also feel nostalgic ... for an era where people had ideals and walked the talk. For people who showed courage and despised cowardice."

Nostalgia reeked of a profound desire to determine change. In its canvas, I traced storms over the seas surrounding the island of contradictory landscapes. The trampled leaves were proud to bear the inscription of the revolution, whispering to me about the cluster of thinkers who revered the endearing definition of companeros.

Pursuing the sepia painting once again, I saw the singer transform into the role of bringing the revolution to the people, the writers defining the revolutionaries as complete beings, and I searched for an expression that would define the emptiness of a contemporary era that ridiculed history and defamed revolution with degrading contempt.

The Anonymous Artist (3)

The decade that caused her to despair had long since evaporated into the vagueness of days that lose their importance, when the hours that followed enabled her to dissect the ruthless words slapping her face. Each word stuttered alone, losing its vicious coherence, and the coveted illustration that defined an occupation adorned her name in defiance of the monster that ridiculed her intellect.

Even the turquoise eyes had faded into oblivion.

The relics remaining cowered before the conviction that surged through her fascination with the land of contradictory landscapes. They realised that her freedom remained unclassified by their psychological terminology, because of their arrogant failure to understand that natural freedom does not submit to a mediocre authority.

The Anonymous Artist (2)

A decade ago, the anonymous artist rested her elbows on that same window ledge, in the squalid flats where garish colours paraded their monstrosity before the scent of ploughed fields across the road. Protest songs blared in her ears, deafening her senses to the cold wind slapping her cheeks, as she followed the rebel singers into their search to commemorate history into a culture of remembrance.

The history she was enamoured of did not regard the countries that regaled her with the burden of citizenship. It was a country whose identity was hidden under misconceptions - the island of contradictory landscapes in a sea that witnessed the revolution of resistance. Poring over the faded photos of people swarming in the streets, the anonymous faces greeted her with a gesture of friendship and inclusion. Her mind swelled with appreciation and became a vagrant of past celebrations and mourning ... memories deflecting between triumph and the actual revelation of a slogan that implied resistance until death.

I wondered what memories inhabited the memory of loyalty through the years of solitude...

Epilogues (3)

The embodiment of loyalty that she adhered to was millions of waves away from the island witnessing her descent into memory. She devoured books to immerse herself in the past belonging to the island of contradictory landscapes to escape the other island that shackles its citizens with the chains of false democracy.

As she turned into the quiet alley, with its ancient street lamps emitting their amber light, the man of the revolution appeared beside her, guiding her mind to the literature that liberated minds from the obligations of meek surrender.

Che Guevara Songs

Che Guevara Songs

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Epilogues (2)

When an epilogue reaches the concept of ideals, those who shun history are eager to applaud as threadbare drapes descend to alienate revolution from the politics of mismanaged power.

An era that calls for an epilogue in revolutions is calling for the destruction of philosophy. Power is dependent on an ignorant society - a society happy to believe that voting for the chosen puppets is a fair option. There are no options in a parody of inclusion that already limits choice.

The tangible epilogue of contemporary society is its lack of appreciation of revolt. Society has been indoctrinated into forfeiting its right to think and contradict the rules, because submission enhances the power of a ruling dictatorship that hides behind the fallacy of government and opposition parties.

However, epilogues retain their transcendent quality when they salute the thinkers. Loyalty towards a revolutionary ideology for a common unity does not surrender to inferior political trends. Epilogues that reek of hope embrace the masses that shun conformity to enhance history with the making of a continuous, historical revolution.

Epilogues (1)

A distant echo of dry leaves scattered on paths blended with my desolation. The voyage had been terminated by a reality that thrived on conformity, and I was expected to conform to the notion that this reality was a necessity. That the reality of epilogues was an absolute end.

My time spent on the island of contradictory landscapes taught me that epilogues are the necessary foundations for the process of continuation. The past held the scent of new beginnings, and names etched in history were slivers of reality depending on memory to survive. Narratives gained an identity in an epilogue that was either absolute in its termination, or else allowed the author and reader to wallow in a lake of possibilities.

I was enamoured of a fictitious reality that was intelligent enough to discern between the concepts of suffering to be free, and the freedom that comes from conviction.

Diary of a Companera - Epilogue

The voyage reached an epilogue that commenced at the dreaded destination. On the island that tortures colours with its imitation of creativity, the companera concealed her knowledge of a common unity. She preserved the definition of her name in the books that led her to the island of contradictory landscapes.

The companero was writing with a steady hand, embroidering cascades of yellowish paper with his calligraphy. The scent of his words wafted to her room in wisps of delicate clouds.

He never concealed his name. It was the embodiment of loyalty.

Administrating a Form of Justice (15)

Justice incarcerates freedom. The concept of impounding fear is a resilient force in the marble halls, and a truthful, defiant denial is considered as lack of cooperation.

Justice fails when it deems its laws to be the highest command for the masses.

The Anonymous Artist

The tattered ribbons woven into her hair were a reminder of the exile she had endured. In years belonging to a past that reeked of assimilation, the artist was not even allowed to feign conformity. She beheld people glaring at her books, heard rude voices ridiculing her opinion, and was finally condemned in a trial that deemed her void of intellect

The books on the shelf that witnessed her verdict crumpled their pages in shame.

The anonymous artist stifled her art for a period extending over thousands of days. Her dreams no longer held the scent of sepia portraits, and the mundane reality thrived on electrocuting her senses. Her eyes had repudiated their mahogany hues, becoming listless organs of sight in a haggard face. Only the relics of metaphors remained. The metaphors were disrobed of their unique meaning, and pleaded with the artist to mould their language into a definition that would defy the manipulative traitors.

Finally liberated from the shackles that destroyed her expression, she sought to live through metaphors that retained all the mystery of sepia, but also harboured the force to combat the denigration of ideals.

"There's no such things as dreamers, and you can take that from a dreamer who's had the privilege of seeing realities that he was never even capable of dreaming." FIDEL CASTRO