There is no real name for her: Mayadoni.

She exists in the place of her making,
That is not a real place.

But she is real: Mayadoni.

Say it with me, as a prayer to nothing;
Say it with me, as a mantra;
Say it with me, to curse her namelessness:


Without name, she drifts,
But not without aim.
She is angered by her own love,
And by something else
Without name.

And though she longs to recognize
A face
Among the people crossing a big avenue,
Or dancing in a city of lights,
Or at some random café,
Or at a bus station,
She forgot to create the face she seeks;
It is not in the world of her making.


Oh, my dearest nameless one,
Perhaps it is you who must be made human,
To live once more in the world
Wherein you may find that face.

13 February 2014, Los Angeles