When did she decide not to recognize to accept the child in her lover when it is the same child that caused love to blossom in the first place?

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Why does love always arrive like a flower never meant to bloom in the desert

and

why does it always end like a thunderstorm that ravages the harvest?

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When reason is made of heart material,

are the fabrics destined to be shredded?

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And of leaves, big and small, what is there to be said, that they in falling die, or that in death they nourish the earth?

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Or is victory nothing more nothing less than the softest breeze, sweeping away the sun from a dry river bed and a withered heart?

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When I run out of questions that will not be answered

is that when death arrives

or when life begins?

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Would Mahagama Sekera be still alive

had he not left us at thirty nine?

 

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 Which secret library holds the fascinating tales that the little birds do not tell?

 

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And when all is said and done,

the files filed away and the book signed,

isn't meaning all about a word of appreciation from a beautiful woman?

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How come the daughter of the Vine,

love's timeless mistress,

never tires of caress,

never dissolves in the oceans of tears shed upon her breast?

 

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Do men really drink to

drown their sorrow

or

to remind themselves that

sorrow obliterates

intoxication?

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Conviction

to

cynicism

to

nostalgia

aren't these the basic stages of life?

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Is it the ashes and sighs of our days and nights, our wanting and fulfillment that will remain to testify to the heart-space willingly conceded or stolen?

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Did the night notice

how the mirror looked at you

while you were asleep,

and

how the shoes took a walk

wearing your skin?

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What is contained in the pension slip of a retired revolutionary?

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After being trodden by how many uncaring feet does a pavement stone give up on humanity?

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When voracious readers die,

why don't their mortal remains turn into so many pages that will fly in all directions celebrating literacy?

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What makes the louder statement, the rattle of a machine gun or the silence of a hunger strike?

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Did I hear someone say that the last river has run dry and that love was buried in the avalanche of acquisitive drive?

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Were they fireflies,

those blinking millions I saw on an abandoned paddy field

or a host of lost stars mapping out new constellational residencies?

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If the true catalyst of the processes of alchemy is love

have we not loved enough that the world so resists transformation?

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 If

to grow up we have to murder a child

don't we have to kill ourselves to recover our childhood?

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Did you know that it was after they cut off his hands that Victor Jara's guitar produced the most exquisite music?

 

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And is our sun such a giant sucker of silence, that it is only after nightfall that we hear ourselves speak?

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When will you understand that my voice is drawn from the nondescript song of sighs gathered from the dead forests of time?

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Are ghost towns peopled by memory, fear and certain intoxications

and

are fallow fields the playground of the unnecessarily murdered?

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Does the laughter one generates erase the tears one gives;

does the cancellation of flood by drought yield joy?

 

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If dawn was preparing to break like an invading army,

would we be offered the out of an eternal night?

 

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Do we know the monsters we could awaken with the best intentions

and are we aware of the magic we persuade to blossom through ill-will?

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Is it because the heart is too big or has too many chambers that giving another name residence cannot terminate other residencies?

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If all the short change in short-changed transactions were gathered would we still have enough to satiate the world's greed for all time?

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Will not prison walls tell us

who the real prisoner is

and who had the last laugh,

the prisoner or his jailor?

 

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Is there a special chamber in hell wherein the raucous laughter of politicians is fried alive?

 

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Isn't memory

a transcendental ship that carries us to the past,

and hope a vessel that speeds along uncharted waters?

 

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What caused our planetary revolution in the first place,

the rippling laughter of a clown

or the uncontrollable sobs of a child?

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If it is true that

truth like sunlight

goes straight to the heart

how many more suns are necessary

for the consecration of justice?

 

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Why do people whisper the beloved's name again and again

when all they need do to cure solitude is to listen to their heartbeat?

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Do we remain when we stay behind,

do we go when we leave,

who are we when we surrender,

who do we become when we say "no"?
   

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How many games of solitaire does it take until you know that solitude is universal?

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What was her name,

the woman who peddled dreams,

and

who was she in the bright red dress

selling laughs?

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If Rumi met Khayyam in an impossible collapse of time

would they dance, sing or recite

the holy scriptures of silence?

 

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By what magic

does she come crashing through the wall of interruption,

and

what kind of love
persuades her to behave as though she never arrived?

 

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Where does our laughter go when we die and where, tell me, our tears?

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Do tears and sighs have a secret arrangement whereby one or the other gets to react first to the shredding of dreams?

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Which is your preferred final resting place,

a teardrop,

a leaf,

the memory of a shared moment

or

a country called Happily Forgotten?  

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Where do spent rainbows go to recover

colour, a drop of water or a ray of sunlight?

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What should I call this terrible and tragic potency of hers that transforms all into a borderless territory of longing?

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When the pacifist is bested by the pickpocket, does he say 'be my guest'?

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Do we ask questions because we require illumination

or

are we driven by a primordial impulse to enhance confusion?

 

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What's more precious,

the sigh of departure

or

the tear of reconciliation?

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Is there poetry in this strange lust that the sun has for the river bed, that it would unclothe its flowing garments, one drop at a time?

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And bus stops that watched us grow from child to man to child again are they saddened that in circular transformation we never saw its face?

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Isn't it true that  those who set fire to the thicket do so because they are intimidated by the dark and its secrets?

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Did Shah Jehan in the Taj Mahal create a public spectacle of his grief because he doubted his heart could hold intact the memory of Arjumand Banu?

 

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Who is the true prophet,

he who sees the multitude as the dust storm it will turn into

or

she who sees the wet-nappies of their minds that they never did outgrow?

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Did you know that those who shortchange the impoverished impoverish themselves in the moral economy of life?

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Isn't the inexpressible joy the true measurement of her love and the unbelievable pain I feel the true indicator of my love for her?

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Does the panel of judges know that it stands judged the moment verdict is proclaimed?

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If a human being is 75% water, are names merely brand names for bottled water with some impurities added?

 

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And of the incurably curious were there any who knew that song can be transformed into fragrance, and perfume into texture, touch into gaze into teacup into scissor into poem into laughter and forbidding?

 

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