It's with great pleasure that I inform you,
I have delivered my womb to your wife.
How delighted she was!
Cheeks that impaled with joy!
A joy so reckless,
It pierced her face, pouring more blood into them eyes!
The child that has been produced,
It rolls around in all directions,
Spitting out not shrills of laughter,
But caverns of loathing,
Urns filled with cruelty,
It takes delight in battering our hopes,
For its own little desires to be fulfilled!
God bless this child,
So sorrowfully bestowed in these graceful arms,
Its minute hands callousing my own,
As if all these lives of mine,
Were embedded within it’s seams of flesh.
Now I must comfort you not to worry, Sir,
The white-clothed ladies just put their hands right up and said,
“It is a very miracle of God this child is as such!
You must clasp your hands out to Him,
Thank Him dearly for this!
You cannot disgrace such noble birth!
Cannot cannot cannot!”
Oh Sir, how harsh their voices were,
All rising in one shrill hymn,
Bowing every now and then to bestow more prayers,
On foreheads of old prophets,
Stuttering as their lips - enclosed with years of thoughtless pleas –
Uttered a facade of desires,
Long forbidden by most men (not unlike you!) to sinful perceptions.
Sir, I hope to see you soon,
Wife talks daily of you
- how she wishes –
You could hold this creature of ours in your embrace,
Breathing your wisdom into its ears,
How you would mould it!
Within your arms holding it,
Crafting this raw unearthed fruit of my womb,
Into an architecture of your sensibilities.
Pulling a limb here and there,
Chiselling off some vagabond heartstring,
Carving in great doming arches as eyes,
Filled with the purest tincture of white,
Looking upon the produce in delight,
Only to restore to more carvings.
Smothering the fine plaster into the flesh,
‘Till all layers are fitted to the bone,
Sheets of linen ironed across the forehead,
Embedded with names of its makers.
The last touch –
Violent convulsions to embed the mind into prosaic terms.
I give you all the happiness
from this cavern of mine,
Of course –
Not worthy of even the greatness
that is dust on your feet,
I hope your lives will not encrust
my path again,
For I know I would
bow in shame,
For such noble lineage
to burst forth from filthy wombs
as my own,
That is not God’s intention.
With great pleasure, Sir,