Mute Poem by Seshat Nibada

I was the slightest in the house
Warm of spirit, light of heart
I took the smallest room
With the greatest piece of night

I was the vulnerable one in all of that
My little lamp played in the wind
As I wrote the story of my life
I was not a creature, but a spirit

I never spoke, of the unaddressed dreams
They just sort of remained inside of me
They had no penpals, only secret comrades
How noteless was my love – I could die –

But I didn’t, I grew like a an old Geranium
Plastered in a book, that nobody read
So stationed in bliss & melancholy
I was the most alike, the rest of humanity.