Woman,
you, with an ideal fat distribution.
You, with wide hips and
firm breasts,
succulent,
with veins and milk glands ready;
tears of the future baby cry
and softness as a baby hair.
Woman in eternal blossoming,
turn my sperm into blood and flesh.
Breathe inside me a new life,
awake my sprouts,
grow my trees and
cut them as much as it is needed.
So they do not fall from their own weight
or rot barren and small inside
the nothingness of the immobile time’s smog.
Feed me with your passion.
Because I don’t know any different,
I don’t know of love.
Give me birth.
Give us rebirth.
Because it is the last thing from me in this world,
and you smell like a mother.
The Death of a Siamese Twin
AuthorZoran Bejkovski