Our kind of pain is obscene
This dolor bellows, it swells day and night
It’s of anger, anguish, disappointment, desertion.
Our pain is silent; it’s our enigma
We submit everywhere, but the grief is a tick.
Our kind of pain perturbs, and no one feels it but us;
And who are we, the us, I mean?
Some say it’s the diaspora, but some insist that its those in the stew;
Whoever it may be, I know that the caustic aggro befalls all.
Because it’s us, it’s our nation, a withering foliage.
Our kind of pain extorts our saps, as we count down the days.
Our pain, this twinge slays
But you don’t care about it,
If none of your hairs is swayed by the pungent wind;
You don’t care if you’re are not us, the disintegrating polity.