I’ve been born,
to be hurried up to die,
dissuaded to stay alive
too long,
they run out of space on planet Life,
we can survive
only in transformation
to be terrified by the pointy catapults of eyes
launching payloads of stares at me,
invisible arrows from the dark, muzzled up tunnel of the crowd,
eyes like dented, still sharp blades,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine
to be frightened by the words
shouted in anger at me,
from the broken, deafening speakers of the throng,
mouths of plastic and wires,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine
to be put down by dry expectations
labelled with thick glue on me,
stuck right onto my mouth,
pushed in my ears
by the thick thumbs of the almighty, all dull mob,
heavy hands, pointy fingers,
so like theirs,
so unlike mine
to be
impregnated by the heavy scent,
blinded by the bright colors,
deafened by the sharp sounds
of the others’ pains,
and feelings,
and emotions,
and reactions,
and tantrums,
and craves,
and preferences,
and loves,
and hatreds,
all piled up in careless display
on a messy counter
in a crowded store
where everyone who enters must buy something,
the more you buy
the less the guilt
of breaking the existing order of things
that you didn’t want,
and you haven’t been asked
if you wanted it
or not,
the order
that is
so like theirs
so unlike mine
I’ve been born
to be sentenced and imprisoned
right after my first breath,
or my first cry,
or my first push with my tiny legs
towards a freedom,
I will never grab,
but I will never cease to try to grab,
I’ve been born
to share my name with millions of others,
each tossed in their lonesome cell
among billions of other cells,
where we all are sentenced to live our lives,
and be grateful for being protected
against joy, and freedom, and happiness,
knocking at each other through the impenetrable walls
of strangled communication,
whispering incomprehensible words
through the thick mortar
of solid, impenetrable skin of human rock
till our knuckles
get drenched in their own blood,
get broken and feeble,
and the whispers you get back
are
so like theirs
so unlike mine
I thought I was thrown in the world as a black, dull grain of sand
on a huge beach,
of white, lustrous grains of sand
If I only had known then
What I know now,
that the others’ pains
and feelings,
and emotions,
and reactions,
and tantrums,
and craves,
and preferences,
and loves,
and hatreds
are so like mine,
and there’s not even a black grain of sand
in the billions of grains of sand
on the white, infinite beach,
washed up rhythmically
by the eternity tide
and everything that is
is
so like theirs
so like mine
