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Poem
needs no introduction
nor permission  
to be anything.  
He does not request  
to spread his arms wide  
and reach the heavens.  
His words are unmoored.  
They flow and change,  
remaking things  
before the world sees them.  
His hand—  
a gesture suspended  
by Gleti, between slumber  
and the thing he covets.

His mother would make him go out 
in the sun with calluses and dirt 
under his nails, not the boy 
who writes with nothing but air—
his imagination drifts
smoke that creeps, that wafts
through the darkness.
She can see his future only
in the toil of work where hands
are hardened by sweat
and men are measured in terms of muscle
not the gauge of their thoughts.
"I see no future in words,"  
crusting like dry ground  
won't shatter what it holds.

Notebooks in hand—if only she had an inkling  
where he wandered, what he  
wrote when the sky loomed patiently outside—  
"You must be lost, son."

But he wasn't/isn't.  
Not now.  
The words are the map.  
The ink, a compass.
The boy who writes is gone somewhere already.

She once set his notebooks aflame—  
watching the flames tick  
the pages like Shachath,  
lived words lividly
tossed in nuggets of oak.  
He sniffed at the fumes intentionally,  
did not succumb.  
Ashes did nothing—  
they fell prey to the burdens  
of his passion for release.  

Meanwhile, his mother invoked the farm  
as if it cut across her
and the earth pulsed in her veins,  
calling for more than her hands could give.  

But none of it reached him.  
Not the scent of hay,  
the dust stirred by the tractor’s turn—  
weathered bones left 
behind in the shed. She can't see 
that it is not for him—  
not for the boy who bends to the soil,
but for those who bend  
as if the land owns them,  
as if its thorns can hold them.  
But the boy with the pen  
is somewhere—  
the dirt cannot touch,  
somewhere— 
the ink flows faster than
the creek he once skipped stones across.

His feet are compulsory, 
made for roads not furrows;  
his heart beats in cities
he has not yet seen—
spaces full of words
still seeking a place to be.  
His mind does not  
seek permission
nor does it trace any earth.  
It flies,  
like birds
unburdened  
by weight of earth—
by laws of ground,  
by sweat his mother
hopes will set him free.

She can't conceive
the scope of his mind—  
how it glides over her,  
over the trees,  
over the weathered barn,  
over the waiting fields;  
silent but for the earth's slow hunger.  
Her love has boundaries,  
his words have none.  
She used to question him,  
"What will you be?"  
He didn't reply.  
Didn't have to.
He wrote. Words spinning
into tales only
he knew too intimately.

He writes of those
who are not able to write—the ones still
waiting to breathe outside
what they were born with.  
Of the world
as it will be one day—
the world everyone waits for.
He writes
because it is the only means
he can be both earth and air,
the man and the boy,
the seed and the fire  
that will one day consume all.  

The boy writes alone,  
not because he is running  
but because he knows the world  
has yet to see him.  
And when it does—  
when it finally sees him,  
it will be in a language  
he has forged from coal and guts
and tears and the inevitable
space where thoughts are born  
before the world can name them.  

He writes because, in the end,  
his words will build the place  
he has never been allowed to walk in.
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