Lisa Zaran

The wind blows secrets up to my doorstep.
How quickly they come to reveal themselves.
Truths and half-truths of this world.
In what country am I living?
I separate each howling thread of air.
I toss the grey ones of indifference
out into the yard. I embrace the ugly ones.
In what country am I living?
My heart is heavy with homesickness.
My soul has tucked in on itself.
Four billion people on this earth
and each of us lonely. Each of us
trying to love while being hit with resistance.
In what country am I living?

I listen for a moment to the silence: for the value
of human life begins there.
The wind orders us to jump and we do.
I embrace wholly the sheer silence. The wind
tries to come and I shush it, shoo it away.
I close my eyes for a moment to the darkness:
for the seed of God lies inside.
The sunlight orders us to sit and we give it
the finger. Crimson floods the sky.

In what country am I living?
A country of roots, a country of stones.
People nourishing themselves on the bones
of her corpses.
Why has the breeze blown its secrets to my door?
Why has my right hand grown such a cynical glance?
In what country am I living?

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