my body aches,

made contorted by defferment,

bent out of normal shape,

spilling waves of shivers down the armour of my back.

and a shadow of an arm bedecks this man.

my feet are stuck,

well rooted in loam of winters dry skin.

i cannot move.

i cannot breathe.

and geometric nets of pianostrings cast a shadow,

and warm the armour of a man’s back.

and when this man was a boy,

he shared the life and name of his father’s planting hands.

and cared to have an aptitude to watch the leaves rush over eyelids as fast as over windows.

and when this boy will have been a man,

he will let the universe pick him up out his roots.

and be so brave to let the tree that rustles wind,

carry him and many things.

by benyomin spaner