In a month's time, my son will slide
into this world, slick and screaming.
Doubt chokes the words in my throat.
The shock of it cuts me in half. I'm an old man;
I've only silence, only my death to give.
I walk under the canopy of the oak
and sycamore trees, all are dying.
Invasive mercenaries, the beetles
from places I've never been.
When I was young, I built a temple for an heir,
a wooden platform with a ladder and a rail.
It rests on a thick oak branch. So far,
it's only gathered leaves. I watch it
slowly rotting to its silent, silent end.
Bury me here where I belong. When the tree
and temple fall and the bitter roots unearth,
I want to be planted here. Like song,
the new tree will finally break free of me.
Wilder, I hope, more tolerant and strong.
Old Man by Emily Fernandez | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
20,00 US$Precio
