Psalm of the Destitute

I sing my story on long, dark nights;
Does my singing reach his bedside?

I came to his door having heard his name:
The one who speaks peace and contentment on every passerby.
But when I reached that place, fate had made no mistake,
The house was 𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 of his presence.
Am I the first to return empty-handed from his door?
Don’t I have a portion in the mercy of his glance?

Lo, I leave the ring of my nose, my greeting of love,
at his doorstep
as I hum this song of sorrow.
When the night falls, and the moonlight dances on it,
He will see my radiance in it
and know a cloud of longing passed by.
Then if desire does not stirr up
like aphrodisiac in his veins,
the heavens will assemble and mourn,
for they taught me this 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘲𝘢 for no reason.

So many times, I tried to explain it to my heart,
but it has brought me to his door anyway.
There is no mystery in this,
this is the strangeness of longing:
That just by sparing his priceless gaze over me,
He has bought himself a slave worth two and a half seconds.
What is the merit of my flesh and the cost of my heart,
If I sold it all, yet did not find what I came looking for!

 

 

 

Featured Image by Cherry Laithang

One Reply to “Psalm of the Destitute”

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