Iris (an original poem by Mahiruha)




Boy of the flowers

Mariner of the neon haze

You sit at one terminal,


You don’t need eyes

To type

Or even fingers,

But only

The rhythm of the flowers,


In the plain.


I think of that

Clean vastness

When I think of you.


Outside the city

I see you as a circle of mystery,

Ringed with sapphires

And filled

With every color

Of the sea,

Topaz and coral.


The dawn

Iterates you

Throughout the sky

As light

And the night

Repeats your various names,

And does not stutter.


I play within your boundaries,

I discern your give

And pull.

Your tides of

Recursive loveliness

Remind me of my temporary


Orchids in the earth.


Beyond the wires

And the tunnels

And the flashes

Of the disillusioned

I will sell my life

To the silence,

For silence is the first letter

Of any alphabet,

And an open smile

Is the last.

Between the poles

Of silence and smile

I am Monday’s beggar,

Friday’s prince

And Sunday’s memory.


(Do you hear me?
You type away,


In my shell,

My fresh-faced



My music does not last,

Nor does it in fact

Belong to me.

It is an echo

On loan

From a library

In the dusty street.


I will return my songs,

And pay all fines,

Break all claims

If you tell me

The ship is ready,

I have all the provisions

We will ever need

And you know the way.

We will trace

The pulse

Of the waters

And offer irises

To all

From the rim

Of the unknown.

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