From the genesis in the trenches of a shattered God,
from the retraction of a gunshot in the convalescent man,
from the unity of raw herds of trained animals,
I was born. I rose from the churned lawn like clean vapour,
like a herb in the gassy hell of mud and blanched faces.

In such bare solitude, I created more than just a handshake.
I was a fume to wrap weak men in the metal arms
of each other, a frontier beyond the segregation of an army.
I ascended, a fertilized deity, bringing a fir tree.

Who does not love their flawed creations for their gift
of identity? Oranges and tobacco replaced the bodies;
the fragile sound of hymns from a glass harmonica
overrode the thorny echoes of gunshots. How could I not
love the naivety of such impromptu and natural forgiveness?

I was born from the womb of a mother who, for the loss
of a heartbeat, had not forgotten about the inside need
yet for life; and I am asked how I can love mankind?