Storm light over palms—

still water trembling with a new sincerity.

Fingers glide along my back,

and the pond’s surface,

like those of a pianist's who taught herself

Moonlight Sonata at twelve.

After so much rain—

soft moans, cigarettes among

the banana leaves—

the pond remembers sky.

Difficult histories shared,

promises made, even as the shadows

of what is lost, and of what has been snatched away,

migrate upward, as still-black clouds,

ominous, unwilling to forgive.

But look—

a solitary cloud shines through...

ce qui est conçu en ourdou se transforme en français,

puis se transforme en tropiques,

puis se transforme

en Violence d’un nouvel espoir.

Bon, mais euhh... what is to say

it won’t rain again? Rien.

Je m’en fiche.

Once again, clouds drift apart, legs part;

Face deep in it all again—there is new 

light, not rain. And somehow,

because that is the way of the world, the

Day begins again.