Why do I spread the longing so thin?
Why do I have to keep anticipating so?
Why would the words cease when they need be spoken?
When is it right; is it even wrong now?
Why do the doubts hover as air
molecules above me?
Where would I be; where would we be in a little while?
What would you say when I reiterate the angels’ proclamation?
When can I offer songs, as a sweet smelling incense, burning till the morrow?
Would dark colours unite and commune in thoughts as one?
How far would the road be; yet to be trodden?
Would I find that which I seek, or would despair be the soutane that I put on?
Would our fore-bears turn and look upon us with joy on their faces
Or would the griots from amongst them banish us from either world when a tale has touched their ears?
Would this darkness, familiar to those in Sheol, never set foot in my niche?
Would you think it as I do, or think it as you would?
Would the encrypted message lying beneath the thought be perceived?
Would I rid my mind of these questions?