Mother, this story begins and ends with you
it's your story
not mine
I wrote it for you
turning brown leaves to green
dreaming fruits in winter
flowing down the stream of time
building my canoe of dreams as i went
harboring in love and letting it grow
to fruit in winter turned to early spring
All my dreams lay the other side of
the bed of nails,
yet
my feet are swift
they fly over the nails
but my Sun still bled
gashes of red
and I bled all over my dreams
how long i asked
before my Sun is whole again
The gashes healed and it was Spring
I shook my curly locks and defied the wind
The sky is green I declared!
the world agreed
The grass is purple
the world agreed
I painted the Sun a tepid shade of blue
borrowed the yellow of the canary and gave it the rivers
the mountains capped their snow in pink...
and the world agreed...
But this is your story ma...
the one written from your womb
It must end where it began
the bright must give to shade
the swift to slow
the green leaves turn brown again
and I...
I must wind up in your womb again -
and you must die.
But the world?
the sky is still green, the grass purple, the Sun a tepid blue
the rivers flow yellow and the snow is pink...
and the world agrees.
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