(Blue) for Sudan


Clutched my heart a terrible invasive grief. One of my father’s calling my skin its own, as it shed cries of mercy. Of a divine pardon. Of an outpouring rahma* to reach the lives lost to the march. Mourning settled in the veins. Of a country that bled in each corner, wounded dreams of the young.

Oh my light.

Cover them. In forgiveness. In acceptance. In a gentle stream of your favor. For every sobbing, motionless farewell. For every crushed, unfinished laughter. For every bullet robbing a mother of her heart, a home of its joys. Accept the souls.

My light.

These are the violent seasons. The hideous toiling. Of fury. Of anger. Of rage embedded with despair. No rest has touched the heart, as it bends, imprisoned at the edge of a weeping pain, aching at the sight of blood-stains in every burial ground. I carry nothing but prayers this nightfall. Urging only for the souls welcome in-return.

God have mercy on them.

God have mercy on them.


An unjustly speechlessness tortures a deeply wounded hour, circulating images of a mother holding her son in farewell, falling to her knees, gasping, wailing, frightened, fighting in unmovable disbelief, sobbing with fists in lock to her chest, as she cries out for time to descend in final standstill.

What is there to say?

To a heart shattered in pieces, abandoned painfully to a violent flood of tears. My mother wraps me into an embrace, instantly, utters prayers of submergence, reawakening fate to envelope my life, closely in its watchful care.

What more is there to say?

The graves are weary with bearing the expressions, the dreams, the music, echoing loudly the brilliant bravery of the young. No bullet can ever silence that mighty loss. No bullet will ever silence such mighty loss, overthrowing the cruelly hungry shadows of a reality cut unfairly short, confidently commanding a serving place in history, assertive with a legacy; outlasting.

What more is there to say?

I wipe the nights’ fatigue off my eyelid, utter a single prayer of thankfulness; for the open summers of happiness, the larger than life; hearts and spirits beautifully united, working, dancing, chanting for that promise, the softness of companionship found with the focused march for that promise, the unwavering courageous commitment to tomorrow’s promise and all that splendid glory of the forever young. The never forgotten.


Sudan; a weeping, wounded, bleeding land, marching with unshakable confidence to the loud drums of its revolution.

Every street carries a duty enraged in determination, resisting the violence. The cruelty. The shove and force of killers’ rules, intimidation turned pale in fear, opposite people sketching limitless possibilities. Boldly. Across the pages of tomorrow.

One unified voice. An uproar of freedom. That lit the rallies with passion and power guarding the collective dream of a community. Strong-hearted. Hopeful. Fierce in front lines with an incredible resilience tucked underneath takes of persistence that gave courage a whole new name.

Not a single thing is capable of shattering the spirit of the Sudanese people, my people, whose pride alone, stands to consume the shameless flesh of every dictator, laying greedy hands to silence a country, mastering strength and peace in its new journey, committed to reach the finish line.

I am so humbled, never handcuffed in despair, my heart is so, so full.


Years from now.

When I am asked about honor. About the true meaning of resilience, of what it means to paint the whole picture of a freedom fighter.

Years from now, when home isn’t an impossible embrace; that of a conversation, renounced, enslaved in drowning sighs.

Years from now, when home is a honeyed land, that shades the grounds in warmth of blues.

Years from now, when the extraordinary strength of martyrs are taught in history class, when the names and faces are celebrated with proud bells of victory and freedom.

Years from now, when the beauty of Sudan is in the details of people who stood together in defiance to cruelty and injustice, when that beauty is a story narrated by our eyes, hope as a loud witness against every misfortunate that failed to shape a final address.

Years from now, when I speak of my country, I will sing with a heart so filled with pride in-acknowledgement of the long journey of growth and sacrifice, humming tunes of sorrow, happiness and the selfless love that liberated the home in Sudan.


The title of the poem refers to blue, the favourite colour of Mohammed Hashim Mattar, a young man shot dead in Khartoum on June 3 2019 by paramilitary forces during a peaceful sit-in against dictator Omar al-Bashir, and then became the colour of the protest movement. The term also refers to the blues, as musical genre expressing longing and melancholy.

*rahma: mercy

Link to the Italian translation

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