Listen,
I am a brown leaf, drenched in the water
that blocks light but reflects shame.
I float near an erect stem,
a stem more erect than the Washington monument,
with a thick bark that ignores the tender touches and
the gentle whispers.
Are you mocking me?
Yes, in case you have not figured out,
I move with the water, like a fashion,
no roots, no conviction, only seasonal conveniences.
All rotting leaves know their veins are swollen with a complicated past.
In harmony, we take the lazy escape of being just inspired.
Only inspired; no less, no more; just inspired, but with precision.
Why do you have to be so green, so mature?
Why all eleven of you have to sprout together?
Why sanctify my black water,
inject life into the stem,
that deprives you under its shade
and fears the wind?
You have robbed me of
my privileges of ignoring you.
I pray you forget that
you inspired me, scared me,
when the green leaves intoxicated the wind.
Life sleeps near death, memory near dementia,
hope near fate, waves near shore,
like separated lovers unaware of each other,
until stirred by your breeze,
and provoked by the dawn.
Listen, you, the eleven green leaves,
you have to forgive the rottingand the rotten leaves.
I beg you, please.
I will listen to you.
I will
because
I am secretly scared and
proud of you.
Waves
Faisal Ahmed is a macroeconomist (www.faisalahmed.org)