The Wanderer and The Other Night

searching the soul of poetry
in the holes of wombs
the first paradise
where the first
wind of verses
was blown
so was a smile

whilst in the other night a poet collapsed, blown by chronic wounds which are faithfully looked after. and in that other night he sliced his own heart with a blade made of yellow-bamboo skin, to remind him of a slaying pain one time. and in that other night there was always a feast with the dew on the pandan leaf, and the thorn reciting prayers. and in that other night a poet was lost in the windless land

and he turned into a bird
flying through foreign alleys
where each rocky cliff
shared stories and heartbeats

in such a tongue familiar
a tongue of womb and mother’s cave
to where all who arrive and leave
shall come:

to the savannah
of no ending

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