I like looking at my half-lit face
A vapid reflection on the bookshelf glass
I see the knowledge gained
So that some knowledge is lost
Outside my window I can reach out
I’ll almost touch the blank wall
But it doesn’t reflect me
Not even a half-frown or a straight smile.
To the poets who can sing of stories
In the breath of history
I am all ears in appreciation
But where am I in the conquered wombs
And the raging warriors
Where am I in the forests of civilisation
How did I swim in the stories
And emerge with a parched skin?
I am closing my soul to every word
Hosting parties for them as guests
I am not the modern living
Nor the past undead.
mimimusing 