Dedicated to Neza Yussufi
On it I serve my meals,
And my organs it always heals,
But rarely do I keep it clean;
Bleached in the sun and not seen;
As usual, disordered when I go home
I find it full of foam;
Out of mercy, I stoop to hold it.
On my palms it broke into halves
I shed a moving tear
Which at last turns it clear;
But why did it break so easily?
I still ask this question queerly
Even when I turn twenty-three early.
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