Some Recent Qasidas on Pain

I

I raise my glass
To toast you, Pain

You are butterfly made of silver
Blooming in all sorts of places
A uranium rose
Whose sharp petals
Cut deep into all seven layers of flesh

II

You are language
I peel off the syntax and lexis
Of the legendary onion
Layer by layer

Till I am the only thing
That’s left

III

You are the daylight
Which keep
Men awake

IV

My being is your gynoecium
I gather
The pollen of death
From your hirsute feet

A poem is about to germinate


29 March 2011 11:31 pm