My Voice

In Mumbai and Rio

Kibera and Shanxi

And in Smokey Mountain

From Landscapes of litter, literature rises

Soulful

And sweet

 

Sounds lift from the tongue

Singing passion and truth

But does mine?

What does my voice cry?

 

Through black and blue vision

Love burns out in vain

Guileless hope falters

Against sleeping minds and comatose hearts

Tears etch

Pain writes

 

A crimson lipped choir  

Wail a sweet rhapsody

But could mine?

What does my voice cry?

 

Seasons pass like TV

Clocks mark seconds in years

Compassion’s archangel

Spins wounded to earth, but can’t puncture the rainbow  

Blazing

Above

 

Xylophonic cells chime

Ephemeral harmonies

But could I?

What does my voice cry?

 

Perched on distant turrets

A smug alien Saint

Recalls inspiration

Historic and small, with no tune at all

Banal and

Absurd

 

So what if they scrabble

Uncertainly,

They make love and make war?

And become history

But will I?

What will my voice cry?