I had only imagined a world where everything is born
with a wing, rainbow touching it’s feathers
and every song is sang in the voice of a happy bird.
Grief these days is fire burning a wet field.
That the world in my poem is perfect doesn’t
make me the word, a god pronounced by God.
How everything came to be remain a mystery to me.
A masquerade unveils his mask before me
and I am still having difficulty recognising him
as my ancestor. This is where I first decode the lies
in the tale my grandpa told me.
Unlike the ones passed down to me, what was written
pushes me closer to truth about the miracle of growth.
I grow faith in my dream first, like the root of a tree
in Lebanon. And I am wanting water in reality.
I do not know if going back to sleep would quench
this fire on my tongue. But I sure know there’s a guttural voice calling for to sleep.