Be a hug for me
that my cries could calm in its cradle.
Be a leisure
in attritions
amidst the wheel-work
of these clocks' hands.
Be the boundless arms
to the immensity
of a man's alienation from others,
from himself,
pair of breasts
headrests
brimming of white feathers,
brimming of the wings of purple dragonflies.
Be
a white Chrysanthemums
to the hummingbirds,
the open arms to an orphan
who in the delirium of these
meandering mazes of alleys, and no way outs,
has lost the scent of his mother hugs,
the stove of
homey smell of
fresh baked bread and stew,
and the aroma of morning tea
that only home, sweet home
could ever brew.
