Mothers Mothers of my own sins And of every desire, where are you? Mothers who, without stopping, give birth To weary fates in unrealized times. I have no memory about chosen paths: Only about byways to pave Pulling away weeds on the back of the edges. Mothers, I am alone Should I ever be ashamed of this scream? I cannot hear my lament: I’m propagating it just like a crow Who believes in his song more than anyone else. Mothers, I am standing there motionless Gaudy and flowing like M ό nch’s ghost, Bruise and inaccurate like Shiele’s boy, Mothers, I am just and only A backbeated son, A hymn to victory prior to the battle, And, to silence, a voice in counterpoint. Mothers, perhaps I’m not and I will never be More than an intimate and folded flap of something. I belong to any Story that has been worn out, A date display with three dots at the bottom... Red The red houses burn blurry Under this crackling hour That gives a...