Those little feet, little soul: breathing in the morning air,

beneath the flat hairs and paper sky,

All wandering song that pass, now grumble

in fatal sigh, if not these tears: writhing in world's girth?

A little soul, breathing and huffing;

trying to figure the way, last time mother's chiding—

About filling the flower pot, those little eyes

Looking through such lights, may never arise

In the flash of flatten earth.

Those little fists: trying to hold wild waves

and shores, friends of the knife, the sword

slaughtered even dreams, all fruitfulness

is there, failing to grasp those tiny hands—

Now those little sounds, barely ring.

They tried, tried really hard to enclasp

those hands, that laden with dawning skies

And I asked, 'What's it to be like to die before living?'

Who knows, what may rise when one dies—

Angel by name, that sweet little frame.

A little flame, trying to flare: heaven yearns

For it, perhaps the song that sung before birth—

Now, weeps on the grave that holds it undefiled

Fate and fear, knew their master but I—

Saw death before birth.

— 22nd August, 2023