when he was yet four years
and Maya was yet five on this very bed
where Maya just woke up one morning,
he kissed her.
he stole a kiss from her lips and from his
short pants, that of a child, loose and transparent
i have seen how hard his thing was
to my disbelief arising as it was from a very young boy
with milk on its tongue. And Maya too liked it.
There was no anger in her face.
Freud must be right. One cannot take for granted
the tick that sticks on the eggs of men
inflamming them.
One cannot take for granted the lust of the past.
They still haunt. They still confuse. They can still make us crazy.
Look under your pants.The difference is just the lush of the black hair.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem