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Thursday, April 03, 2008


I want my son
to grow with the sun -
an angel that sweats
the air, or makes the heavens
cry shrill with
cicadas - bloom hot on his rough skin,
to play amongst lines of cypress
trees dark against
the earth's breast, bathed in blood-red
burgundy - the colour of mud
on strong fingers, with olive trees
and grape vines that
terrace a fertile garden,
which feed and shade
from the molten sky.

I want my son
to live religiously,
to respect zealously, to take
from the earth and to give,
to live and let freedom live
in the eyes of all he'll
come to love - and to have
wisdom enough to know when
to sway in time
with the wind, or when to stop
and fight for his say - to have the courage
to take shelter when the
years rain down
inside his heart, in the land of sun
in which he has grown.

I want my son
to imagine all colours
with the same name, all dust
is the same that dissolves
in life's waters -
and never to fear
a night too dark to see -
and to pass on this legacy
when he has finally
made it his own; and to know
in honouring me all he needs
to do is make the love -
of all things living,
of all things growing -
his true home.

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