The love of making sounds
On the maiden paper,
Deflowering its white anticipation:
The first crystallization becomes
Into the unsettled shade of us,
Foulmouthed into believing
We own the world, from different ends
To its very fingertips, with a tad of evil.
Our words hung beads on the muse’s string-
When one pen is singing, it sings the rest
And this realm becomes our cradle
And we pretend the silences.
Then, our disputes stand on their own
And make their peculiar demands:
More love more blood, more ink.