I Declare

If they write my biography
When I am no more
What would they find
But
The strong chains
of darkness resonating
Insults- hate-rejection
stumbles from door to door,
The blue on my back from lashing whips.

When did my mother
remember my birthday?
I have written only
the date of my departure in my diary.
Within these two moments
I lived and
Died, so many deaths!
The soil in which
My roots were fixed
I loved madly.
I had planted so many flowers of dreams
On the tree of sleep.
Nothing remained in my hands
but the dried branches, every time.

As ever
I never tried to understand myself.
I was always a worm in the dirty ditch
crushed under sole of feet.

These are the splinters of words,
Hundreds of years old.

How can my sorrows
be contained
In a poem?

From ‘Maanind’