. . .

Born into saturnine secrecy,

oh Hafez-e-joonam, how you’ve been

quashed. I know it’s for the better. Pressured to assimilate

although two

parallels can’t meet.

Perpetually discounted, you, the lesser homolog

are the eternally same other, eclipsed for centuries.

yes, I shall stay in exile, banished from the city of the father-poet, I

know it’s

for the better

And yet I dream

of a world where I write

these lines in my mother tongue,

One where I don’t execute

the white man’s battery of my mother’s tongue.

No it’s for

the better.

tenderness

does not come easy to us. we default

to rage, for him for her for them for us.

nevereverending thymos.

incapable of apathy or moderation,

i am an amalgamation of wrath anger fury hostility bitterness.

as we struggle to spell love

all we learn is to lacerate overpower vituperate erode.

Oh Saturn,

I am in sempiternal competition with

               one

                              hundred

                                                              sixteen

               other moons,

gravitating around you, from afar.

vây aziz, drei sprachen and still no words.

put on that movie you like, first

just let me cut some fruit

for you.