Being
My skin is quiet on most days;
it breathes in constancy,
lighting a fire here and there
so the horizon comes into view
and I can face upward, forward,
sideways, downward,
as the situation requires.
In winter, its fractious
nature
rises to the surface;
deep crevices form
like nascent roots
meandering about
without a destination.
I hydrate
with a balm of words
meant to fill cornucopias
until they overflow.
Rivulets trace
my limbs,
my torso, my face.
My colour deepens
and my identity heightens,
spreading like the wings of a bird,
falling like water off a cliff,
free-flowing over land and sky.
I am powerful
like the ferocity of the wild,
like the depth of colour,
like the Himalayan rivers.
My skin is my context
and I reside within it.
Migration
I climb into stirrups
and bound across
oceans, plains and
other geography,
wrapped in the
cultivation of time,
contrasting and contorting,
often censoring the sounds
that new grasses emit,
waging wars on foreign fields,
against otherising winds.
I hear the whispers
of my ancestors
carried by a quiet breeze
flowing from home to here;
I feel them in my pores,
reminding me
at each breath
that I am who I am,
that I am me.
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