I won't write about
a fleeting grief in this poem—
grief is an outcast
in a city draped
with the sweet songs dripping
from nightingales.
grief is a weed—
never wanted,
yet it grows.
nobody wants
a spike of grief
so I write joy
like it's my possession.
A poet is hungry
of his mother's face—
he writes—his pen does no physical
resurrection.
A poet is reduced to an alien in his motherland—
still he writes.
Even though my grief
wedged this craft,
I will not colour its voice into a thunderstorm.
Joy isn't the
absence of loss—
it's the absence of worries
in the forest of losses.
