IMAGE: Danka Peter.
If I was a tree
you’d mold in your hands
the very best of loam, for my root
to blossom and grow into a fine shape.
The shape of freedom.
Giving you shade from the blistering elements
in every inch of distance.
If I was a country
you’d hoist my flag
swamped with the rainbow.
In foreign lands, you’d sing
joyfully my songs like the nightingale
at the sight of a rare fortune.
Every mission abroad
would be a nightmare.
In the midst of foreigners,
you’d desire with certainty
my warm embrace.
If I was the sea
you’d flock to my shores,
like the lost sheep of Israel.
Leaving ninety-nine brethren behind
and ignoring the Shepard’s call.
From the evening breeze to nightfall
basking intimately and savoring every encounter.
You’d become a pyrate,
lock you heart away, and never
dream of land.
But I was love.
You lost me – even – before I was born.
INK YARD 