How I want to be loved?
Simply with passion
of the five senses
that seek to bear.
I want to be seen
far from Philomela;
and outside the molded culture
sprung from an ideal shape.
I want to be smelled
not with the scent that lasts—
sprays during gloom
but spoils when sunbeam comes.
I want my voice to be heard.
As strident as his;
as tranquil as his--
the voice that speaks with proportionality.
I want my love to be tasted
like wine after century--
kept best
through the years of our struggle.
I want my heart to be felt its beating—
for the country,
for the masses,
for him.
