محاولة قبل الأولى

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the pen’s tip halts

just before it touches the page

fearing for the paper’s safety

from the rage of false pharonic idols

this wrongly gendered body

fragments

sprouts roots

without your colonial sperms

or their western missionary positions

it flowers without blessings

from semitic gods

or sanskritic deities

speaks the language of every flower and leaf

considered too dark

bent

hideous

to be admired and watered

yet its smiling pores

never closed

the stem of this flower

whose its petals

we thought withered

its roots dried up

its soil barren

when one morning it

snatched a drop of dew

gave it to its last petal

and refused to die

Contributed by Suneela Sunbula

Tags: poetry, Revolution