because it is not my lips
you seek for your own
so you may savor the day
that is being born as promised,
laced with the aftertaste
of my ashes and yesterdays.

because my hands are scarred.
and your skin bristle, your flesh
shiver at the contact of its strangeness.
your skin detects but would not believe
the possibility of ripe and sweet fruits
from the seeds i gathered
coated as their shells are in grime,
washed out traces of something red.
and so you dare not even discover
what twigs we could gather
for little bonfires to blaze in your darkness,
to melt your shields,
your daggers and armor,
and forge them into spoons and forks,
into a clean goblet
to hold the wine.

because my voice is not his voice,
my eyes are not the stars
of your blued skies,
in daylight or dark.