Conceit

Song for Ha Jin
(Not the author of ‘Waiting”)

In the cold dust-spangled void
where the last color of grass
is that of blue, the air is nonchalant,
the same breath that bored the ichthyosaur,
the same color that wraps
the romance of long last.

In that cavity where interest
cuts a path through the self-
assurance of boredom,
a child is conceived, and in
a leafless air the love that tarries
on the fringes of a song hardens into frost.

And thus the universe sings.

Let us sing!

Of the greatest of emotions,
One can make you feel nothing.

The weakest and the basest sing
A juju:

There, you can feel your bones
Aching like an injured child.
Here, your soul ripens into
A scrubber of blood.

Of the gravest of minds
Nothing is made of the ‘think’.

The emptiest and the mutest sing
A juju:

There, your eyes dilate
To accommodate the universe. Here,
Your ears can swell
To reach up to the first racket.

The first and the last sing
A juju:

Once more!

Of the highest of loves
One can die alone.

The dreamer and his dream
Sing a juju.

Alas, a song cleaves the sigh of the day.
Another song to make a universe.
Another universe to sing a juju.

What is a juju?

If it is not love forsaken by the interest of motherhood
it is a conspiracy to croon a song for a fool.

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