The blessed water!
O the blessed water!
Why this all bloody ruin?
You give life, nay, you make it.
And when you like, you take it .
Take it – you bloody hand.
You are not God,
Not even half God.
Nor Poseidon or Neptune.
Why this bloody ruin?
You pretentious sloth.

Do you not see?
The young man crying
For his father –
Father – an old man
Lost in the inner space
Of his messed up mind.
He cannot walk – 2 paces
Without being lost – and you set them apart.
What an indifference!
What an indifferent God.
That is Louisiana.

And the waves take me to Bihar
O God, don’t you see what I see.
The old woman with broken teeth
Parched skin taut over cheeks
With hair like cotton strands.
O bloody hand,
She has to let her children float
To an unknown coast.
And she will wait for the next boat.
How many bodies to count?
How much poison is in this fount?

O Blessed Water,
O Blessed God,
Tell me something so I may sleep.
No lullaby, no soothing I need.
Tell me the secret you keep concealed.
Tell me the secret so I may sleep.
Tell me the secret so I may sleep.

Mutaal Mooquin
September 3, 2008