Why clothed I
In garments of fine silk
And I, yet
Make fidgets?
Why covered I
With loins of soft fibers
And still on my skin-
Coarse weaves?
Why lost I
To the land where roses abound
And yet found I
Amidst mob of thorns?
Why I- the bed
When fault and shame kiss
Make love, tease
And on my chest lay dead?
Why caught I up
In moisture-laden winds
And still, dryness
My face caresses?
Why feel I…
Green is everyone
And I, alone-
Their weed?
Why do I desire
A place in the nook- cozy
Near the fire
And yet, still feels hazy?
Why armoured I
With steel from the hands of the finest blacksmith
And yet pierced I
By even the coniferous tree leaves?
Why is my dream so aged
Like the days of trees?
How long more, long I for answers
That are never birthed?
How long more
To freedom will I pray?
How long more
Till returned I to clay?
