Like wet cloth on a flame,
A breath too late, a beast to tame
Buried under her fingernails, earth turned to ash
Charcoal tears frozen upon her lash
The blood felt heavy, a lump in her veins
Squashed a pomegranate grain, the kind that stains
Tried lifting a finger, it crumbled under its weight
It wasn’t the damp in the air,
It was the lead in her veins.
Dancing ‘round the parking lot; the earth spins under our feet
You twirl ‘bout your toes as the stars swirl over our tilted seas
Your head swinging back; the branches waltz by the leaves
You’re grinning at the sky and the wind in my lungs turns sweet
Your skin celebrates the sun, flushed, you're in bronze and gold
The fire in my blood creeps up my neck like something old
Eyes, acidic lakes of vermillion tears
Throat, a taut rope threatened by aching sobs
Chest, a bruised mural of plundered pride
Wrists, twisted sticks choked under teeth of lead
Abdomen, a nauseated grave of disease
Knees, trembling pillars of unsteady life
Ankles, a crushed faith under the weight bones
A Haunted creature gaped back at its mortal scar
The joker skipped across the circus,
Making the crowds laugh with delight.
But little Mary in the front,
Sat as silent as the depth of the night.
She saw the joker jest around,
With that smile of paint plastered on his face.
But the girl couldn’t help but wonder why,
It all looked so fake.
The joker hopped about amusing the masses,
His hands in the air as he twirled with grace,
However those eyes gave his secret away.
They looked like a haunted place.
So little Mary followed the joker,
Into what they call a greenroom.
Pity and Terror taking over her senses,
As she saw him sink to his knees, cast in a gloom.
Taking a cloth, the joker scrubbed off the cosmetics,
Revealing the truth that lay underneath.
The girl saw, a man with wrinkled papery skin,
His face in bitter despair that he had sheath.
The mascara that gave his sockets vitality,
Was replaced by sunken bags under his eyes.\
And The frills that graced his shoulders,
Concealed a dejected slouch that he had disguised.
Mary didn’t ever visit the circus again,
For under those hooting crowds,
Was its pungent reality scabbed in silent plea,
Were they really so blind to these cruel shrouds?
Or chose to see only what they wanted to see?
Recently, I discovered that ninety-two in French is called ‘quatre-vingt douze’ which means ‘four times twenty plus twelve.’ What an interesting way to think of the number. While the same number in Mandarin Chinese is “jiǔ shí èr” which translates to ‘nine ten two.’ Isn’t it fascinating how the ability to visualize a number changes with the language?
Interestingly, what I’m trying to assert is that the tool of language is so powerful that it narrates the history, manifests the intellect, and acquaints the opinions of the entirety of its speakers. It enables one to think from a certain perspective and what a trump card it is for multilinguals. They get to see the world from not one, not two but from many perspectives. It's like each language is a different shade of sunglasses. Just like the color of the vision changes as we switch, likewise, one’s approach to the world changes as one juggles through diverse languages.
you held my head and placed it on your chest life roared through the bone, i slept assured its raining, i do not want to discern whether it ...
