sometimes, if I stand here long
enough in the monsoon
of alphabet rain, my muse for whom I wait
appears, though rarely at my beck
and never at my call—
and when he does, or she— it's hard to know
with chameleons, the inkwell in my chest begins
to warm and my hand transforms
into a quill— the hairs stand up on the back
of my eyes revealing new glimpses
of an old life— memories
come into focus and vanish in a cloud
of hope that tomorrow will not be wasted
like so many yesterdays—
I begin to scribe my prayer of gratitude
to my God who has never abandoned
me, as I have him— my Saviour
who has never let me be snatched
from his hand, and who fully paid
for all my transgressions
with his blood long before I entered this world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Superb. the wasting of yesterdays gives way to the rising hope for today, to the rising hopes of all tomorrows.