I am tired
of fathers and mothers
and sorrows.
I'll take the barren night,
the thirsty, endless ocean,
the red stars exploding;
their dead pieces flung
apart like tiny, burning
arrows.
But then, I lie
even to myself. See
how reluctantly light
leaves its body
to the dark or
wolves release
the screaming hare
to inevitable silence.
Everyone must be born
somewhere: in a small cup,
a narrow tunnel, a blood-filled sky.
What or who we belong to,
from where the cord was scratched
and chewed away, the heart despite
its origons, indecisive
daily, shifts its weight.
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