The dance of the Arab poet

One day I hope to write in my mother tongue,

that is, embryonic fluid and gauze,
in allegory and hypocrisy,
wit and pride that drips off my cuffs,
in a fit of rage,
and the aphorisms of a sage.

One day I hope to meter out,
just as a Prophet does on a mountain,
a dance of moths around the light of my chest,
with musk scented breath.

To spin like Rumi did when he missed his Sun,
to write a poem of apology,
in hope of pardon,
for guilt to be undone.

Although I write in English,
I think in Arabic,
what verse I lay,
is a battle fought,
wrung and wrought,
where neither the flower cares for being sabotaged,
nor the bee for giving it’s life,
but the sweet nectar drop that’s made,
is the only thing that’s sought.

I ache to spend my days,
stuck in between breezes of lands that are at odds with each other,
perhaps with a poem of mine,
I can be the alchemist of hearts,
softening hardened ones,
healing broken ones,
and if not a heart hears me,
so be it,
I’ve always been my only audience.


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