I am written
Rewritten in a penmanship
That attempts to clarify the thoughts
Only to turn out more unclear
Than the words themselves
Sealed so as not
To spill the emotions
And contain them like hidden motives --
Conceived fetus
Waiting to be delivered
Dropped in the mail station
Priced not by the weight of emotions
But the density of paper
Sorted by location sometimes unknown
To man’s traversed maps -
Cities unnamed
Streets unnumbered
Somewhere likely to be visited
Only when one gets lost
I am placed in a bag
Meeting others whose only details I know
Are their names, addresses
And the color of their skin -
Otherwise faceless
Armless and ghastly
Keeping their thoughts to themselves
Awaiting birth
Delivered until what is left
Are those for the dead
The lost and the ones in hiding
Returning crumpled as if losers
From tombs untraced
Refusing entry to unsolicited recollection
I look at the mailman
See from his eyes
How he yearns for the stories
Each of us has to tell
Burdened by having to bring
All our secrets to closed homes
Without being told about it
To be given hint only
By the expression of people’s faces
While reading the tongue of words -
Sometimes sweet, oftentimes too sharp
To cut through
Undelivered, we are thrown into the sea
For the words to drown
For all these secrets to settle
In the deep -
There is no way back
For we are bastards
and we do not know
Where we come from
