Your sadness is not a precious thing
-The indulgent fool!-
The precious is a landowner’s land trove
( For God doesn’t make land anymore. )
The precious is a beautiful woman’s sneer
( At things. At people. At you. At less. )
Her monopoly on consensual sex, and
the alcohol that kept you going despite
that horribly low feeling is extremely precious.
The precious is what you yearned for and
fought for and killed for and snitched for
and what you rightly knew precious and
acquired them as yours ( Deservedly so )
and showed them to the world and said,
‘Look, look, this is mine, and that? That’s mine too.’
That power of invoking green monsters in
others is truly precious. While your sadness-
your incompleteness- your lost faith- you
keep it unknown, hide it inside a dark vault-
under a shade, below the ground, with
a dead body that is yet to be yours.
Griefs that my father carries,
I carry them upon my shoulder.
My mother’s unmended heart –
I carry in a silver jewelry box.
All my brother’s sorrows,
Bland in hate, blind in helplessness,
I prance to carry them like
A dancing dagger on my belt.
Afar alone, love dew that
My girl yearns, I carry it in my throat –
In dry, whilst a noon time song
Spatters the sound of rain.