Issue 11


 · Poetry

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.

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