LGBTQ+ Poem: Who Calls the Soul, by Haludpata Mouu

The soul answered the call of man
The leaves answered the call of dew
No his, no her—
The dew smiled like a mother,
A mother who met her child
Yet no smile, no word
No joy of love.

Who is this little one?
No his, no her—
Who is crying to fight?
A daughter? A son?
Or only a newborn
Unnamed by the world.

No one touched to kiss
No one touched the lips
The father was not a father
The soul had
no sister, no brother—
No kin, no clan
No softness of love—
Ever. Never. Never.

Ask the name of the soul?
You? Or you?
No one asked
No one called the soul
Only a cry remains

Is this our world?
Are we human, or none?

In moonlit streets
At every signal
A hand stretches in ritual plea
Dark kohl above the brows
Lipstick red as vengeance—
Upon the chest:
The pride of defiance

No his, no her
The soul speaks to the night—
Is this an endless fight?
The soul runs
By night’s end—

A handful of borrowed starlight
Beneath those feet—
The sky, forgiving, immense

A voice still echoes:
Begone, hi—…!
But now the soul has come
To the sea of absolution.

Like wind,
Like river
Like moss married to stone
Rain chants moon-songs
In waters dyed with dusk—
And the stars, they laugh.

Salute, O mind. Salute
Among saints and seekers
Among butterflies fallen
From ruined homes—
A dusty pilgrimage
Ornate with surrender.

In the Ganges
Redemption flows—
One eye weeps
The other forgives
All washed into the sea.

The shameful words rise again:
“Even here, you stand—
But where shall you dive?”

The sea of the hour cries out
Still we ask—
Why so far behind?

The soul—no his, no her
No love, no one to care
The soul sings alone
O soul, O my soul—
Are you crossing this sea
To the tune of your own?