Are you going to take this pain to the grave;
This constant disruption, alienation?
One moment there is something,
And one moment there is not—
And you have no fixed answer,
Like a bad performer.
Now come the stage is ready.
It grabs you by the neck like a bully,
And all it wants is a response
You can’t provide.
So, it squeezes your brain, the pain,
Or pops your eyes
To see you’re there.
Do you want to, to the grave,
Prove that you exist,
Somewhere behind this skin?
And how you hate being summoned,
Being called upon,
Because every time you responded to a call,
You did it with bitterness.
Ever since that bad trial,
In the kitchen with your mother,
Everything that called on you was bitter.
Now even a song, a glass of water,
Tastes like resentment,
Anything that needs your presence.
You want for no one to know that you are,
You want to vanish out of this body,
And its callings, holy or not.
Death is your desire.
Now what?
You want to remain and bubble up like water,
Or do you want this commute to life,
With all its turbulence and bumps?
Then again at the end,
All you ever wanted was death,
Death of material.
You cry, and cry to this elegy,
And I bet that everything alive
On this Earth, would call you a fascist.
Such— is your desire for death.
“افرا”
