The sick man’s questions

by August 24, 2012 0 comments

The more I run, the more I’m buried
in this dirt. This dirt

that I never wanted, never needed,
and never thought of. But now

this shit on my toe. It made me vomit
till I lost my sense. They looked at me

as if I am a sick man. I am! But in a different way.
They called me sinful. I called them barbaric.

They reminded me of ‘our culture’.
I reminded them of ‘the culture’ they make

to rob a man of his innocence,
of his peace and autonomy. They roared

to frighten me. I roared back to make a way out.
They retorted to prove that I was blind,

that I got caught in the net of her lies. Who,
who is blind? Me – who always wanted clean things,

or she – who thought she could use her people
to keep the matter subdued? Who,

who is blind? The one who doesn’t want to get blind
or the ones who want to make blind?

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