My geography began from the fatherland There no one dreamt of butterflies. My father was not a skilled farmer Planted the grief-stricken berries in his own chest Gifted the turbid clouds to my mother's face Left the wild boars for us. One day, the borders became tighter. The berries dried out underground. My mother turned into rain. We, not knowing how to hunt, Scattered our wound seeds on the earth.
Issue
11