you speak of some bits, bits and bits
of bits buried underneath our hearts and
bones and you want them
to be unraveled bit by bit
that there is always a way, a manner
a process, some means
to an end, to find that light at the end of the tunnel
i am born on a complicated day.
And then i have grown hairs on my head
They too are complications
and my fingers do not have the same lengths
and shapes
That is also another complication
And my feet are not straight
And my face is not proportional
There are angles of deflection
There are lights in me which are refracted
And i may appear so far
And my hands may bend a little
It is because of the difference in our index
I am myself sometimes. I am not myself most of the times.
I ask you then: Are you sure of yourself?
Is that you? If yes, I am telling you
I am not me. I am somebody else.
If No, do not mind me at all.
I am having the tantrums of the poet
A dough with yeast. A grapefruit sour to your lips.
I am irony. I am another riddle.
I like to make myself readable. How many syllables do you
need? Tell me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem