An invitation I received, written by my own hand,
But where misplaced memory of its writing?
I parsed the paper
                                   /Split sheet in-two.
I struck down the gavel,
Put to testimony the lies of pastel twins.
Their mouths remained open, illiterate
To the governance of  our truth.
“Think, think” I said, to myself and the moon:
Both of us had
Only two weeks more to undo.
I left then the deposition of that house, too long
Traced from the whistle of yesterday’s father.
A new parent I sought, amongst fields of sugarcane
And silence—in the soil of those rows
Burrowed the seeds of my rebirth.
So who had come before me,
and torn them all up?

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