Has the moon ever bowed down 

To the rippling shores? 

When the silver shafts of Luna

Dance to the rhythm of the placid waves,

Then the panorama of the tranquil land

Allays the tornado at the heart.

They complement each other so well;

Like red to rose, lustre to pearl,

Melody to music.

Then why, I wonder, is one

A child of the heavens,

The other, a stretch of earth?

God placed them, I was told,

At the moment of creation,

One above, the other below,

Both necessary so

But not one is menial, none is low.

The entirety of His masterpiece, they said,

Is modelled out of 

Magic dust, a marvel.

Everything, they said, in His cosmos is

A miracle worth revering.

Then how am I a creature so ignoble

That they evade my shadow, spurn my will,

Force me to eat dead meat, command me to carry night-soil,

Shirk off from my presence

And call me words I don’t recognize?

My identity is taboo.

My mother told me to hide my name.

It apparently contained

An epithet which distinguished me

Not in a very dignified fashion.

I was characterized, and placed

At the lowest echelon of a pyramid

Which God didn’t create;

I was pushed down to depths

Of hell, which Satan didn’t own.

But these spaces created by humans

Just like me, 

The dissimilitude lay in a name they had

But I didn’t possess.

So I tried hiding myself,

And who I was, as I feared

They’d repudiate my being

Because of where I was born.

But those eyes pierced my existence every time

With looks of suspicion that I dreaded.

Was I being paranoid?

The same spaces of cultivation for others

Became a terror-farm for me

Where I was a trespasser.