The corners of my wounds

still bend to bamboo winds

when sweetness overwhelms the

poet's words.

A man of a son he holds,

suffering love for the little boy,

enthralled,

unanswered by the violence of love thrust upon him,

shed once for all.

The primal and unmet deepens in its unfolding beneath ancient winds.

I do not have to wait for the warfare

to end or give the primitive memories

in the wood, blood ingrained on lonely [...]

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