SEVENTEEN

· · · ·

BHAGAT SINGH

1907–1931

Who am I? swigging from the bad jug,

dying my robe the color of spring—

damn the gallows, stuff me

in a cannon, you wrote that too,

scarlet prophet, quartz rose,

it hurts to speak with you this way

like literature, like private property;

one day I will be only gently and barely dead,

still practically capable of making love,

and you’ll still wear your exasperating little

mustache—is it vanity? if it is, then I stand for it,

how time makes everything bigger,

all of us fighting like it still matters,

the blank canvas staying blank

· · · · ·

—from BOOKOFMARTYRS.docx by Cyrus Shams