by Hibah Shabkhez
I speak of red roses called by other names
To you, who do not yet know this one. I sing
Of suns xanthic, amarillo, jaune, before
You even know yellow; find you poems and games
That spin out sentences like candy-floss; bring
You books in many different languages, more
For my own sake than yours –
I call a bird ucello, it flies higher,
Oiseau, and it sings more sweetly at dawn;
I say parinda, and watch it come alive,
To hold everything, from a kite’s swooping ire
To chicks chirping with the parent sparrows gone.
You listen, wide-eyed, and the baby birds thrive
In all my tongues, as they become yours, word by
Wonderingly lisped word.
© Hibah Shabkhez
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer and photographer from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Harpur Palate, Stirring, Forevermore, Empyrean Literary Magazine, Good River Review, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Find out more here or on Twitter / X @hibahshabkhez, Instagram @shabkhez_hibah and Bluesky.
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