Take me away with your eloquent talk
Tell me news about my ideology
Show me the opportunities baulked
Smile at my unsaid apologies
Put me into scheme where I’m just a screw
Within a machine that makes war
Stereotype me with anything you
Distinguished about times before
Your precious guidance is my comfort zone
All you expected to see
That’s what I am, when I’m here alone
And you are talking to me
What can I say? There’s no way to ignore
Calamities of some failed state
Where I was accidentally born
You wouldn’t envy this fate
I won't try to disarm the army
I can't vacate laws and police
Of course I don’t think its too funny
To be accused for all this
Don’t want to cause any damage
There is no point to load you
With what I’m not able to manage
With something beyond my full due
As you have hinted, I’m little
So in metaphysical sense
There's nothing about to fiddle
I cost no extensive expence
I value a lot what you say
You are my interlocutor here
You help me to live through the day
Even if me you can’t hear.
She died on a three-legged stool
in her kitchen,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her nimble hands.
Now she cooks the twilight
mixing the dried fruits of yester-years.
I feel her thoughts taking shape,
see her sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed, the twilight
shapes her tireless hands.
I pay her rent as her interlocutor.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her life.
We never did meet, but at night
before I fall asleep
she spits on a yellow duster and gently
polishes my drowsy eyes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
In the kitchen she sits on a three-legged stool.
She died in the living room,
her heart burst, and out flew
all the skills of her hands.
Now she cooks the twilight between the days,
the dried fruits of yester-years.
I watch her thoughts take shape,
how they sway to the music of Glen Miller,
another memory she gave this space to.
These words are partly hers,
the flavors are mixed. I pay a rent
as interlocutor.
Room corners are still planted
by her broad-leaved thumbs.
I water the old ferns as if I were
the curator of her old friends.
Kitchen cups rattle on their hooks,
chipped china chimes upon moonlight jingles.
In life we never did meet, but at night
she polishes my eyes.
Spits on a yellow duster and gently wipes
until something shines in me, and I know her
and she knows me.
Words reside alone in time and space;
Only sentient minds their roots trace.
Etymologists bring accents, forms to the surface;
Lexicographers establish a chronological base.
In dark, library basements, archivists file in database;
In academic institutes, linguists their value appraise.
Calligraphers, Engravers with artistic touch glaze.
Phrases the syntactical bridge brace,
and cultured interlocutor platforms grace.
Idioms the colloquial strains do lace;
Sages their poignant advice encase.
Ethnographers stride where lingua francas interface.
Truisms sculpt a vernacular face;
Politicians their trite maxims raise.