The subtlety in how the wind stirs a conversation
between my hunched self, the dreamer and the reluctant
I heard is a form of dance, art that persisted
would keep it’s elegance even when the howls
of a dying species are ringing more than the wind can tame.

I saw a formation of rich men
rich men that by their perspective
I’m a leech because though my facade is firm
how I raise my hand, touch my face even drink water
says I’m overly exerting my desperation, trying
to jump into the lane they were born.
Are they saying I am a gold-digger?

I learnt, not only learning but I starved
a writer’s mind to keep my head where my mother could
see her own dreams start to walk, and walked they did
for a mile or so they gallivanted. See, I could speak that language
she could not and my reading along with writing was beyond
only the world she knew, being I was a writer in my dark room;
but this along the backwater town mindset I inherited
proved mightier than the pen, thus I’m living here still
and she no longer calls me her daughter.

Yet the wind’s seduction didn’t reduce,
when a full moon remained above my head teasing to a hungering soul
the wind didn’t let me enjoy even a conversation with the stars,
it let me to believe, it let me to be convinced that
I should bow not only my dignity to the power of living but
history too; history of where the rocks might have drifted
and men along the way learnt too to be by themselves.
I didn’t become a man…

Let me go I said, I said perhaps it was in a dream
that dream my mind could let go but my conscious lives by.
In the end I’ve become unhappy, tormented
by the man I hope to love and a life I wish to live.
Bargaining, I told those men
each full moon to pass by my street, if the sight is to their satisfaction
then let me eat on the plates they’ll throw away.
Mother no longer speaks to me…