Forgive me, God, I feel
like walking away from everyone.

And good novels diminish hope.
In plurality too. Unopened, parapet

pages to fall into depths of dimwit
energy. So, what do I want.

Say, my life, is a book drafted
bound to human kept promise

or windy gusts. Am I a poet?
Or a faker. God, all trials

embellish a toll on the soul.
God, cypress. Do cypress

sing for an ill fit narcissus-huma
in elliptical syntax reflected behind

embrasure of Path.
But I feel, God,

in the face of Modernity to sing
about you; may my soul, drink one

cubit of rain for you. May I pass
a camel through a pin to know

death’s days for you, I am
the poor girl of karkariya who counts

in illiterate weakness my numbers.
And I can barely write one good

email or line worth memorizing.
But I pray behind banishment

from streets blast of intellect.
Where each leaf writes life

couplets. How a heart
must always hurt for the path.