Footwear that We Are
Footwear
is what we are;
While Mother Earth, bearing us, lies nonchalantly under every foot,
we are not embarrassed at being trampled on again and again.
Though there is one on the left and another on the right,
one to the east, another to the west,
There are no conflicts, murders, or bloodshed among us.
When you take off and keep us in pairs,
we are like a husband and wife at bedtime—
a perfect couple.
If your eyes, which now have no memories of the soil,
should trip, then we are bathed in shit, thorn, and spittle.
Only in your mind is touch-me-not purity.
We, who keep moving ahead to show you the way,
will have the rains for cleansing, for sure.
Footwear that we are, forever the outcast,
untouchables, even for the temple, mosque, and church.
We have been created by skinning and drying out history.
As village water that belongs to none deems us untouchable,
as the tar road of the village is decreed for use only by wheels,
we walk along the fence on grass and grime.
Toes, you who were prone to trip and be crushed,
how could you forget us?
Us, who helped you move on
even when we ourselves were asphyxiated?
I salute the scraggy, hungry dogs
who consume us!
An Ant is Dead
Listen up,
an ant is dead at my feet.
What!
Don’t you hear me?
I am saying this loudly,
an ant is dead at my feet.
Lord,
when death comes to me,
let there be at least one ant
alive at my feet
to thus loudly call out.
To the Girl Overseas
Dear girl,
while pushing the starfish
into the sea from the seashore
I remember you.
I want to come running to you.
But when I think of the number of guards
who may be guarding your skin, your blood,
I am so frightened
that even my fear is afraid.
Spill a drop of your blood
on the other side of the sea,
I will spill a drop of blood
on this side of the sea.
Let us wait and see what the sharks around here
will do.
Or
to bring those two drops of blood together,
let us become sharks.
In this darkness
your messages are being sent from the moon.
The sound of sweat dripping from your eyes
are being mimicked here by dew.
The bird carrying the smell of your village
is pooping on my head.
I am afraid I will burn
in my effort to touch these flowers
that bear the colour of blood
—yours and mine.
There is no sea between you and me.
We can erase that single line
representing the border
or the line within our heads,
so that we can be one,
mirroring each other.
My dear girl,
the sun who touches me today,
touches you the next day
and unites us in that touch.
And keeps uniting
our disembodied love.
