We learned how to live from:
Our inner being, the writer that awoke
It wasn’t transformation or escape
It was nurture-nature in her infancy
Our brain listening to our soul’s
Weary shreds of music, poised holograms of
Roses left hung in mid-air
Our words shimmered there like magic
In a corner of the night, it was there –
We taught ourselves what we most
Loved, it wasn’t knowledge, but art
The appreciation of mortality
From the background murmuring
Of the strangest physics, indolent lines
Of our youth while the water was running
A criminal joy of clarifying grammer
The mutable starts fixing their gaze on us
For a brief instant of prophecy and poetry
We learned how to live from it:
The beaded threads of fierce lines
That died for beauty, and loved the frailest
Etching of invisible messages
We married our mothertongues
In deft strokes of secret litanies
The conception, of whatever a poet is.
Wuji Seshat 