T.S. Eliot spoke to me
T.S. Eliot spoke to me
T.S. Eliot spoke to me
at four o’clock in the morning

I read him much of the night
upside down and backwards in my bed
clutching my head
as I tried to find a position comfortable enough
to breed sleep from the remnants of pain

I was determined 
to find in verse
whatever compelled me
to dust off the nearly century-old pieces
and indulge them in the middle of the night

But all I found
glowed into the words
at the violet hour
were abstracts and nonsense

Jug jug jug jug jug

I realized then that there are no such thing as signs 
only cheap coincidences
Aya ya kigeni si ya werevu
And that this pain is just a waste land
There’s no art in it