The Colour of Language

I have not even learnt the rules of language.
I, a coloured boy in a coloured skin. A paper
of blackness, folded to catch the breath of the sky.
I, the colour of the arms of the Almighty.
I will not shiver and will not shudder. I will rise
above the storm and catch the glimpse of the butter
on my skin, like it is proceeding from the lips
of the Almighty. I, a colour of the night. I,
wearing darkness. Kneeling before an after–
noon rain, I touched the legs of God, tender feet
like the flesh of morning breeze, and I asked him
if I am sand; if I am unlike the stars that glisten
on the face of the sky at night. And He said,
“Art thou not my son? Why talkest thou
like the birds above the earth?”
I have not even learnt the rhythm of sounds. I,
illiterate to the sound of rhythm. I, unwilling
to fumble at the disposal of my words. I stood
and witnessed the wind walking the age of time,
unwilling to wait for a chat. I turned my head
to the words of the Lord and my face to the life
of the world, abased by the glow of the Almighty.
How can the maker of language use it
without a word? I wonder. I, a neonate.
I: a wonder; a colour of the night. I have not
even mastered the colour of language.

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