I don’t blame my body for its language,
for keeping its sacredness secure with words,
its spleen tagging towards holiness and eternity,
since I don’t seem to understand its nature,
or why it mistakes my joys for sorrow,
my pains for happiness, my tedium for freedom.
I have kept the momentum of my dreams,
but my body betrays me each time I reach out
to have a sensible conversation about our future.
It’s not too hard to make up with your enemies,
except that sometimes they open the wounds
from which you struggled to escape throughout life,
If I spend hours peeling off my ripped flesh,
as atonement for the bonds we share,
I expected a token or tiara of appreciation,
not a grand gesture of perfect understanding.
It’s quite often that my body refuses to play ball,
Whenever I take the liberty to do something,
like walking through the path of the sun,
only to realise that my shadow didn’t drop,
and it appeared as though I wasted my time
hankering after harmony for mutual longevity.
I couldn’t laugh; I couldn’t cry
for fear of being misunderstood by a body,
in whom the shackles of sorrow are locked,
and not even the keys to the pyramids of Egypt
would be able to unlock the treasures of joy.
What language should I deploy to harness joy
in a body wired into serial misalignment and pain,
and whatever I say returns to me in a rebound,
as though God slaps me with my own hand.
Every kingdom indeed has a sound and a ring,
as every nation has its national anthem and colours,
every forest has its birds, every garden its flowers.
And if every coffin has its body, every grave its ghost,
then let everybody live and die with their language.
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