If she knows you are trying to manipulate her
To restrict her freedom,
She won’t take this lightly.
A self help video
Told me a great secret to know:
Add the phrase, “you are free to choose”
To everything you say.
Otherwise she’ll go.
Freedom will be defended to the death.
The one you love, even to lose love, will go away.
But you don’t need to convince me
Of this. I see it all for what it is.
Think outside the box, they say. Accumulate
Capital. Don’t work for someone else.
Be entrepreneurial. Don’t wait
For others to tell you what to do.
Build a skyscraper. Don’t feed on filth.
Don’t hide and breed like a rat.
Cooperation is key; only the best
Build the quiet dreams of the democratic West.
Yes! Freedom! But—I only listen to my Muse.
She’s calm. She doesn’t hate Jews,
Who cleverly build wealth—good for them.
They’ve been hated, they want freedom—good for them.
They don’t want the woman in a shawl.
Will Islam succumb to freedom. Will the veil, too, fall?
My Muse is not desperate. She smiles
And gets along with everyone: the slaves,
Those who don’t want to be slaves. She sees
Every motive in my mind, the lazy
Desires, or those slightly crazy.
Nothing escapes her. Is she free?
No one but my Muse is free.
She hurts me and cures me,
But I want to be cured.
She says whatever she wants to me,
And I, enraptured, listen.
She doesn’t pretend I am free.
I know I’m not. My slavery
Is love. And she knows that she
Will be loved, even if I’m on the bottom,
Her face looming, spitting at me from above
In the most reckless manner,
Crying, wailing, helpless, telling me,
Call this poem—The Slavery of Love.
I do. With certainty, or doubt.
This is my pleasure. My only pleasure.
Until my lover who hates me finds out.