169
The earth is full with coal because my eyes are burning my nights
And days. Now I'm a foundling -- no more know I my kin,
My place and time of birth, my name and language. I am outside
The maps, the dictionaries, the horoscopes -- beneath
The paper skin of spoken words, the metal testa of time.
Without the rules of grammar, I'm scrabbled on the walls
In ghettos. I am living in the dark to see my own light.
I'm living in a hole through my days to feel my fall
To you. No longer do I have an address, keys in my door,
Until you are my home, my unspoken language, till
You are my motherland and the record of my birth,
My name, my map, my grammar, my horoscope, my kin.
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