The swallows that return
Are limping when they fly
The swallows that were burned
Will limp 'til they die
And when they visit me
They pluck about my eyes,
Aiming for my lips
They miss them every time
Defectively, I lost my vision
So when I feel about the world
Looking for miraculous mission
I come up almost empty-handed
My hands are full of blood instead
Punctured from the sandbox trees
That I thought were oaks of red.
It was illusion and deception
By now,
The eyes should have healed
The lips should have pecked
The hands should have grasped
Onto whatever is coming next
That, too, is an illusion, a deception
But I am too blind to know