A writer can survive without a car
but a window with his palm
feeling the breath of a street
or a garden, a few weeping pens
and clean sheets are indispensables.
He can live with the moon
as his eastern neighbour or with pines,
cantankerous mynahs or even factories.
As of now freedom of expression
would mean for him
expression of freedom.
For example, the word 'clitoris'
would be as exhilarating as uttering:
'the revolution is a farce.'
He would have continued:
'The ophthalmic optician
shut down his clinic
after far-sighted revolutionaries
came for a free checkup.'
But that wouldn't sound aesthetic
even though it's the truth.
He hates himself for having to utter
the ugly things and even his
bold words would seem prudish
in free worlds.
This is what clings to him
even in exile,
the reality about freedom
which led to his exile.
He would have pursued
the more beautiful words,
skies, dances, images, discourse,
trees, nudes, illumination,
if he possessed the gift
of being free
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem