Child spoke
from his
incubator:
How
unfinished,
how immature
and fragile life –
compared
with him!
About fulfilment,
about the
future life,
the world, yet
unknown.
And she
unfolded
herself
from silky sheets like a swollen baby butterfly.
Where did you
spend last war?
Newer
generations
tumble down
from skies,
and fumes
and shades
of Elders’
escapades
lick their
ears and burn their eyes.
But the
sins they stomp
under their
tiny feet,
and lies they
crunch between their teeth
like
breakfast cereals,
And they
taste the freedom,
but the
taste will never be the same.
And they
want to crawl back to their wombs
and cry,
but the iron
breast of incubator
is closed
until next Sunday.
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