The Child Martyr

For you, I write letters,
The others would be haunting me,
I hurried to the well to whisper:
It was a fast meeting
Like a bullet buried, through a bat, into the soldiers ribs.
It was a slow meeting
Like a mother s tear
As she, preparing travel food
For the one born by the frontiers,
Whose birth certificate is full of worries.
All the overcoats are too large for him,
Yet, it is said that he s worn an overcoat,
This is doubtful,
For he s never been obsessed
With an instinct to take off his country.
I ll gather all those bloods
Still traveling…
Lest I should say that
Our descriptions are but kindred.
Some difference is there between us,
It is the wound, oh my companion,
To which I am an echo.