Speak, Dawn

Arun, will I become a story?
Will I become a modest art?
Or like the chataka bird at noon,
searching the sky with thirsting eyes?

Will I become tears?
A song of mingled notes?
Or perhaps now and then
a voice that speaks of sorrow?

Beloved, will I become a heart?
Will I become sudden weeping?
Or midnight moonlight,
dreams drenched in uncertain light?

Will I become joy?
Will I become night's long lament?
Or the unbearable ache
of finding you?

Tell me, will I become?
Will sorrow touch me?
Will I become half-spoken words,
become marks bound at the throat?

Will this unmoored half-human become human?
Or—
will I become my death?

Tell me, Arun!
Break me with words.