He says He likes the one
Who does not grieve
Who treats Sadness and Joy alike
Undisturbed by Anger, Jealousy
And Envy alike.
But then what about
The beauty of Sorrow?
Those tired eyes after
A long torrent of tears?
Sitting by the window
With a cup of hot tea
And realizing that a
Few years down the line
This would not hurt as much
As it does now.
And what about all the Revolutions,
That Anger triggers inside?
Changes the entire face
Of even an insignificant existence?
And what about all his feathers?
Of Shame, Pride and Longing
They are heavy to carry around
But magnificent when he opens them all
On the day it rains Humiliation!
Who would then fall in Love
With all their heart and be turned down
Just to turn it into a poem?
Who would write with their tears?
Who would read with a sigh?
These circles of Sorrow
Of being reborn again and again
All in one life, have their own little Book.
That is being written and said in parts
And not written and unsaid in others
Forgotten, suppressed, abused, exploited
Debated across boundaries of Cultures
This is the Song of Men (and Women).