If—
it is in the sky that water flies so high
and it is in her belly that fire has its eyrie,
why fear the rumble and cower and crumble;
why not sound your melody over the rackety canopy?

If—
it is the wiggle of a worm that serves a cocoon its term
and it is in that silken tomb you morph in a milken womb,
why fear your razzle and not dare to dazzle;
why forget the say that all is only for a day?

If—
it is, at start, a toothless prerogative into a nightly narrative
down a dead alley with, again, a lisping finale,
why fear the fights and bow before the bites;
why parade the rites and speak in soundless 'cites'?

If—
it is the round bellied Earth that fails to fill your vision’s berth,
but it is the hollow, horned moon that has your soul swoon,
why bow before a bright badge, burning a forest for a hedge;
why curl into a shapeless dot and live on an elliptical, hapless note?

If—
it is in this peripheral parody you keep cawing in chronical comedy
with a raucous vapid voice and black wings of no choice,
why not write your script and have your earthbound wings ripped;
why not fledge your colored rhapsody hence this colorless custody?

© Hirondelle, August 04, 2025
    Arif Hifzioglu