..

a baby-girl is moored to the womb,
afloat, and moving...  

a little jazzy brass is tending
to the intensive almost-dance movements of my baby;
the thumb-dum-drum, in the loudspeakers
of the fetal heart-rate monitors, is thus tense
but responding well to the outside world...

the voice of the health-insurance-paid doctor,
a shuffling of a table
balanced on three legs and three wheels...
and the hisses of a silent drama
rising quietly, in the air  

traffic of misconceptions, daily.
a trauma, played in an almost-songs conversations

yet the glare of life,
as it flashes like X-ray images in my baby's soaked  eye lines,
is reflecting well,
and is promising...  


i usher you to the world, sweet pie...
pick up your things and let's go!

I am going to speak my way out of this:

First of all,
An Apology
As you scan the page, skimming through the Latin letters,
you may assume it is English that you are reading,
It is not...

And no, you have not
Suddenly acquired the European language  
You always knew in your heart you could speak  
-The one with a lilt of medieval flavour,
Soaked in blood and marred in the mystery of an ancient death ...
No;

Nor this a Divine realm you entering,
Enchanted into, through song, or hymn or poem...
Through the power of an ancient truth that speaks in tongues
No;
To the opposite, if you could see any opposites!

but i assure you:
As you read the words and letters of this  "typed -on -my iPhone" text,
You will start to erase them and then, replace them
With your own voice that utters...

And as you do so
They shall not make sense to you,
But they're all yours now
And that's all that matters...

Language is a bounty of colonial wars,  
Once the wise man said
And that's why maybe
You hear you voice rings in an un familiar tone;
Don't worry…
It's your own
You have made it!