The seed

The seed

Tales of fruitlessness in the eating of fruits,

Nothingness in nothing is missing, since stories

Started to write in the minds of the bench seated blankly

Beside a flowing river;

No need is felt for the Seed to produce something,

In place of something,

The same child, born hundred years ago

Is dying in the same parent,

From the food to the shoes,

Cooked in the kitchen brain,

Is visibly mixing, though slow, from the surface;

Ketchup and seasonings, excess exercises on the externals,

Are matters that mouth-water the gray.

The bench in the goings-on of growth-death twins,

In the tracks of the parent and the child,

Is easily found;

Change without a storm remains the form

And the noisy course alone brings out the predicted saliva.

Hands of the clock in the externally silent mime-show do not move

During eating the eaten,

Or during the making of a birth, time pretends to stop.

14 August 2014