Para mi corazón basta tu pecho,
para tu libertad bastan mis alas.
Desde mi boca llegará hasta el cielo
lo que estaba dormido sobre tu alma.

Es en ti la ilusión de cada día.
Llegas como el rocío a las corolas.
Socavas el horizonte con tu ausencia.
Eternamente en fuga como la ola.

He dicho que cantabas en el viento
como los pinos y como los mástiles.
Como ellos eres alta y taciturna.
Y entristeces de pronto, como un viaje.

Acogedora como un viejo camino.
Te pueblan ecos y voces nostálgicas.
Yo desperté y a veces emigran y huyen
pájaros que dormían en tu alma.

It doesn’t grow; it lingers.
Clings to ice older than regret, green with memory no world was there to gather.

The silence hums like a forgotten vow, not broken, just orbiting its chance to be said.

Moss dreams in spores and spores of maybe.
Each tendril reaching for a gravity that will not claim it.

This is not nature.
It’s ritual.
A fuzzed hymn to the act of staying where leaving has already begun.

So the comet loops, wearing time’s soft refusal.
And we, the flinch, the breath halfway drawn, call that orbit "now."

Toiling daylong as the waning sun
winds down on the horizon,
readying the shift over to the crepuscule
waiting on the wing just beyond.

Heaven hears lonely earthlings below,
a feign whining, pleading in a wayward impulse
as the land runs low on game, wild berries,
or dates to eat, and trees for shade.

At the edge of a barren desert,
a dust storm shaped a tall, two-horned human
rushing down in a vortex at a distance,
portends the end is near on day ten,
or a harbinger heeding their pleas,
or maybe God, they had heard so much about.
  
The stranger, who landed, called himself Shaytan,
proclaimed sent by God, on a fact-finding mission,
to solve problems for the first generation
whom he calls "Mudball" under a thick veil of disdain,
and said he brought relief
to get out of their grief
if they followed a simple set of steps
on their own volition
But conditioned a forever commitment
or feel the pain of misery if broken.
Some yielded, but most agreed on an instant,   
Shaytan then rolled out a sheet with scrawl-on,
calls it the "Ten Proposals" and began reading
the verses to the earthlings
waiting around in anticipation.

Humbling and pleasant, a voice, he then carries on,
Dear Mudball, he begins, I intend to give you
a carefree, happy life on this land
until God takes you back to heaven.

Now hear me out, what it is all about;
I propose Stealing,
an essential for living,
limited resources decree
a hassle-free.

I propose Robbery.
A way to man up
and in a hurry.

I propose killing.
It establishes,
"if I can't have it,
then nobody can,"
an ethos for fulfilling.

I propose Kidnapping
cuz it requires fewer efforts
and make sure you gather
like-minded cohorts.

I propose overt/covert sexuality
It is a free natural feed
meets physical need,
and relieves mental lust
whenever you must
while rolling or lying
in the ground or the dust.

And the following endorsements
are for your skill enhancements;
Lying, Jealousy, Pride,
deception and greed
must-have skills, success guaranteed.

Among the above genetic functions,  
I must insist that deception,  
is one, and a most powerful skill
for the utmost survival, a la thrill.

Now disperse, enjoy your time
You have one life to gain fame   
through the proposed traits
we all love to tame
It is genetically embedded
and no need to feel shame.

The "mudball", insofar, turned
into Shaytan's favourite disciples,
while leading the race in venality.
But God's chosen among the rest,
falling behind in the race in virtuosity.

We unmask Adam's descendants like the days
after Iblis's arrival, humanity's weakest link,
the evildoers, now at the helm, lead the world
as promised by Shaytan to the first generation Mudball,
are propped up into a cheerful, lustful, and devoid of ruh,
a pure soul, humanity's mark, warping since
we've been co-inhabiting in stark contrast.

Today, Shaytan's verses are stronger yet,
gaining the upper hand,
and left us out loud besecheeing
for the imminent arrival of
Imam Mehdi or the Second Coming,
a chosen one for us,
a God-fearing or a God-loving
bipedal human being
for the sake of humanity.


Taz Din
Toronto, July 27, 2025

Ooga booga darling.
It's me, sunflower face
the fox-hearted misdirected letter of your dreams.

I live in the space between the walls.
I play Candyland with brain-injured devils
for a *** of chilly blue dawns.

I raid your fridge while you dream of dolphins.
I tip toe around your place, judging the art,
boiling the pasta, making a mess.

That's me saying "love me" from the heat vents.
That's my voice on the tv during your ballgame,
making you ***** with the settings.

Give in, please. I haven't got all day.
Once, I was an Egyptian queen.
Once I was a Dutch laundress.
Now I live inside your Jiffy-Pop, getting hot, expanding suddenly.

It's me, sunflower face,
the fox-hearted misdirected letter of your dreams.
You'll wake up in love with me.

You'll wake up as a black horse wearing a feather plume.
You'll wake up to find me in bed next to you, staring.
I've put my stamp, my kiss, my spell on you.

Easy my high-stepping Friesian, shh shh...
It's all right, I'm a specter and I've got the cure
for all your missteps, I'm an oval track, fresh spring clover,

a pinch of salt, and a lot of black cat!