Gods and Lovers

I often wonder
if my imagination will hate my existence;
will sob when it sees how my fellow humans have become;
will swallow me whole
and throw me out on Sorrow Land

I imagine that fathers are born with bigger hearts:
big enough to hold the World Cup
and make us all have a good time
with no winners or losers

I see roadsides decorated with free love signs
leading you to someone
looking for love, just like your desperate heart
with people lining up to buy love bags
instead of bread or clothes
where love begins to manifest out of the
next door butcher’s heart
and everyone kisses and hugs and talks
for hours without checking their time
or thinking of how long
they will star at the window shield
in hopes they will be racing with the passing cars

In my dreams, I see my mother beautiful and young
railing against my father
saying he’s nothing like a good man

I see my father
washing his black hands
after a long working day
full of cement, plaster and concrete
and I wonder if he, one day, would be part
of the people’s houses he builds
if he enjoys his job
as much as he despises being a father
if he ever thinks of vomiting
his hatred on the toilet’s floor
before he speaks to his children

I wonder if his feelings are as conspicuous
as his boney face
that I will no longer see the wounds through his heart
like the hollow on his cheeks when he looks down

I see people
bearing no malice toward their creator
for making them heartless or loveless
I see them standing up
no longer kneeling down
to ask for His forgiveness
I see myself, standing with them

happy

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