What is this body we hold?
Is it fragile or strong?
Is it whole or in pieces?
Are we happy or sane?
Do our fears even matter?
A little bug on the loose
Wants to play, reproduce.
It’s real and it’s us.
Then blind men exhale
In nervous delight
Will they lose their power to nature?
Or is it gods that demand
To be heard, respected and loved?
Or maybe genuine love
Is all that becomes
From the ashes of hell
And the dead we give up.
May all souls that depart
In these curious times
Have the marvelous art
To be born from the rhymes
Of another poet who knows
Much better than I
What this body is for,
What it means to survive.
donika emille 