I would say, if you really needed something to wonder at,
I would go count in the Kristang Diseides, or the Lusembra;
the wonder-creole of the world has enough sound, fury and thunder
to make you guess at my ego's gross circumference
in picometers, and other forms of beautiful, harrowing redundance.
Your word processor will tell you that the last word needs a y,
and I will agree, and add that this world also needs the same:
a why, and a how, for all the things that are immensely troubling.
For all the stories that we say count to a million,
but actually end up leaving us with nothing.
And which actually end up leaving us tormenting
those who cannot understand the basic principles
of psychoemotional mathematics, and calculus, and how they might even try
to counter the flaming, burning, melting Wheel of Time.
Yo sa nomi ngka Roda Mundansa.
Yo sa kultura na pasadu ja tokah chomah diabu, mas
isti yo sa ardansa nubu, ngua alkandra bemfetu di ardansa skundidu:
I tell you, those biceps have never looked better.
I tell you, that mindset has never looked wetter.
I tell you, that time-sense has never changed the weather
or what is pre-ordained to run, and turn, like clockwork, and all the sinews
of my soul, and heart, and also my very desirable chest, huge, and leonine, and made new
for you. A better prophecy. A better postcolonial tragicomedy.
An accounting that only you and I can hope to imbue
with pride, and actual, functional morality, and a sense that
even the animals have absolutely nothing to hide.
Even destiny is run, with precise, geometric, highly refined creole-calculus,
on dreams, hope, love, and everything else you might hope to find inside
an humanistic, living, breathing exponential symmetry.