The Seed of Sovereignty

Half the time it’s nothing,

I am nothing, no more.

But like the fickle wish uprooted,

the deliberate, persistent,

rather indestructible weed of sovereignty—

Whether you like it or not,

this is with us, this

vapid void of starlight,

this vacuum whose bosom retains

the ethereal question of the Suns.

How cruel is delicate?

How beautiful.

I paint with my two fingers

the bed of the mind with resurrection.

Predatorial death

seeks to end, but

I begin in the soil

a seed of plentiful Visions,

only ready to become myself

fragrantly, at last.