There is you and there is me who fails to see what lies beneath the theme of the living and the dead.
What if the shoes, which I admire were mine, for I am tired of walking barefoot in the thorny path.
What if the bread you so lavishly throw on the dusty ground were the grace for my plate. Hungry am I for months.
What if the child you curse, where mine for I have been barren since the day I wanted one.
What if the blood shed on the striking grounds of power were the ones that fill the vacant vase of the synagogue.
What if the girl you are going to marry is the one whom you hated for so long.
What if you understood me so well that you have the courage to embrace the Devil within me.
Whatever it is, there is a strong string of things that are left unsaid.
*The edited version of this poem can be found in Ayangti Longkumer's Magic Quill.
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