By Lilian Negoi

Carved in the bones of time
legions of grains of sand
shape and reshape
the castles of our youth

the withered songs
tire to chute
again and again on our voices

Come, take my hand,
let us dig for god
within the lost scrolls of
fear and hope.
let us endow our fabric
with the misfortune of time,
pretending that sunrises are romantic
and dusks are wise

After all,
nobody is to be blamed
for our name being DNAed
from god’s voice,
and for us having to share
clay’s heritage.


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