! Oh, no, flesh won’t forget its peculiar pattern:
humid eternal vertices push towards me,
as a bird over an army, I see their toss and turn and I startle.
Oh, no, flesh won’t forget its peculiar pattern!
! No wisdom king is touching it
only brutal hands, like cleavers. I
live at the edge of my kind
and in pain, I look at the
shameful parts of my body;
and like a candle-maker
my imploration I address to
the flickers of my yellowish head:
come, recall, a little at least,
how the pattern used to look
of that light vessel
we smilingly carried our fruit in.