Myself, myself

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I was born on a pile of drums

that was making noises all around my dreams.

I was born under a magic tree

that was full of apples and pears and berries

that was giving nursery to my famine at least.

I was disbanded and torn apart

by a herd of predators when I was still young;

too young to understand, too childish to react.

I was lost, I was frightened, and I was abused

without a hope of mercy or peace or truth.

I was what I was.

I am what I am.

I will be sunshine

that opens its way throw the darkness.

I will be a fresh stream

that appears and ignites and lets be.

I was the last one that is death.

I am the new one that’s alive.

I will be the renaissance

of myself: a golden bright

that arises in the smog.


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