Stone
This hunger is no ‘humour’.
My bread is freedom.
This ought to be a sin;
I am a traitor,
Deprived of all belongings.
The stones which I throw
Once used to be my home.
And the day I spoke infidelity
They dug my dome.
I am no son of Abraham;
No Isaac, no Ishmael
No archangel fell to
Witness the holy in me.
I have no name;
I am many men, and
All of us, helpless
– sentenced to death.
But I have neither died
nor yet finished,
expelled from myself
I am preserved inside amber.
