I
In the hush before my naming,
I offered libations to the empty gourd,
Where the whisper of 6pm prayers
Dripped through cracked glass rims—
Once a stream of false gods.
II
I had come late to the shrine of thirst,
Testing the tongue with wine and barley,
Neck-deep in the hush of amber evenings:
A daily communion of slow poison.
And I sang with others: “This is normal,
This is the scholar’s rite, the subtle altar.”
III
But the bed of promises was but straw—
A borrowed mat where no dreams grew,
And the totem I held was hollow.
Behind the laughter of half-known faces,
I saw the unmasked grin of parasites,
Hands always open, hearts never full.
IV
I unbound the knot of illusions:
What fruit had I plucked from these vines?
What rivers had I damned within my body?
The orchard of my belly swollen and empty,
No harvest to store, no anthem to keep—
Only the slow rot of routine.
V
In the backyard of awakening,
I leave my cup among broken shells.
I choose the naked hush of morning,
Listening to the silence of sober winds.
VI
Now, I turn my wages into bricks—
Building a home in the city of sun,
For two hearts that would be three,
A womb of promise in the gentle dawn.
VII
Like a traveler who learns the road anew,
I place my ear upon the earth:
No more the rattle of false gods,
No more the drumbeat of empty barrels.
Only the seed of tomorrow’s child,
Only the soft voice of becoming whole.
