I need a language
still afloat in the womb
which no one has spoken so far,
which is not conveyed through signs and gestures.
It will be open and honourable
not hiding in my torn underclothes.
It will contain a thousand words
which won’t stab you in the back
as you pass by.
The late night dreams I memorized –
hoping to share them –
will not be taken for complaints.
Its meanings will be as wide as the skies.
Its gentle words won’t wound
the tender surface of the tongue.
The keys of that unique language
will put an end to sorrow,
make way for a special pride.
You will read there my alphabet, and feel afraid.
You will plead with me in words
that are bitter, sour and putrid
to go back to my shards of darkened glass.
And I shall write about that too, bluntly,
in an infant language, sticky with blood.