every flat tongue plots prayers like a graph or a map of an asian continent, praying to shed something special, but certainly not tears—perhaps, tears of joy should wear the atmosphere of our eyes like clothes meant for our children. through that, songs of joy could tickle us into a dance.
you know no one loves grief, not even the bishop who sculpted his house in crescent, so his prayers would easily tower to God.
we want to request every prayer that flows out of our larynxes to be a precious one, so its answer can return to our threshold with gaiety—without being a hurricane to breeze this little joy into air.
we know death is certain, but who wishes to become an autopsy for a thing that loses strength like sandcastles when the sky is empty of stars? no one. not even the imam who preaches death is a sailor that can sail you to God in a paper boat—maybe in paradise or the absence of light.
brother, I know you are tired of being a caged bird—depressed & crestfallen. all you wish is to grow wings as a bright butterfly—scarless & beautiful; build your edifice among your favorite flowers & watch the sun bow at your feet without rending your skin.
i know you do not want to plant grief in your heart, because grief is for the one who watches the cloud swallow his own star before calling God for redemption.
mother said you’re the imóle that brightens the crevices of darkness; gaze into your palm, there’s an aperture waiting for light to walk into it as a redeemer of life & loss.
i’m walking this flora garden to pluck some flowers to offer the gravity that holds you like the strings of a harp.
as my feet creep through here again, i remember you; i remember you with this poem housing neither bloody calligraphy nor a tear sprinkled on each alphabet to form a stain that will barricade you from God.