Poem: The Sacredness of Profanity

1.15 PM. February 8, 1965. A boy and a girl, unmindful of the sun, Sought some private moments on A lonely pier stretching into the Arabian Sea. An entwining of limbs, heavy breathing, a cry And millions of enterprising sperms were swimming Upstream in a mixture of viscous fluids. Some minutes or hours later, A hard-working little fellow Impregnated a singularly fortunate egg And I came into existence. From being a nothing, a nobody, I became a somebody. The rest of those millions of sperms… Each of whom could equally have become A little boy or a girl Were doomed at this exalted moment To be flushed down the drains With so much urine. So were these sacred moments or profane ones? Moments of creation or destruction? Were they beautiful or ugly? Were they sublime or smelly? Did my dad talk dirty? Did mom's cries of pleasure Disturb the sea gulls Or cause an unseen fisherman to hurry To meet his own beloved? To those moments on that February afternoon -- That the two people I respect the most Celebrated with love, With lust, with vulgarity – I owe my current existence. Then how can I not regard Two people fucking As utterly beautiful and sacred? How can I not believe that Profanity is sacredness In a worldly mask? How can I not believe that Our lustful fantasies are Prayers that arouse the senses And celebrate Creation?