her face pale as a fading moon
her hands trembling like the leaves blown by the wind
at dawn
she is
the thin, tiny girl in a row of the brusque and the thick faced
law students, so to speak she has become the weakest link
of their argument
why one has to study law and become a lawyer and compete
for power, money, and position
she finally retreated, broke down somewhere where she says she
screamed without tears, where she writes her poems finally
in inkless pen and imaginary sheets of paper
her mind exploded into some painful shrapnel
that is what happens when you are so true to a vocation
when you do not learn how to fake feelings
and eradicate some emotions
and be the woman and man
tough like steel and shrewd like the fox
or fight matters out like the rats in garbage cans
and yet appear coy like a dove,
they say, this is the battle of the fit and the survival of the fittest
no muscle no guns no spears or swords
it is what they call the decency of words
and logic and sophistry sometimes
she chats with me today, thanking me for the books
for the lightness of being, she blames her stupidities of being
weak, the weakest link of the
argument in law school, she blames her poetry, (she hates my poetry: who says that life is fair? nobody raises a hand)
she says she is now coming to terms with herself
befriends her journal the more, she is taking more breath
regaining her composure
next semester, she will be joining us again,
she promises, no chains, no feelings, a little wit and humor
and nothing fading and not one shall be pale among the brusque
a pachaderm
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem