A nestled tesselation
Tiles of your bitter truths
Your so-called obligation
To shield me
(your reverberation)
From whom I was not created.


Spurned at the aperture
Hands that scattered me
(your back-talk) To a sequestered village
Where I got my stripes
Like the zebras.


So easily discarded
So easily you picked me
(your mirror)
Up once more

As if the mosaic had not been
Inlaid in the floor of Moghedu
As if my name were not carved By not (your) hands

EVC




Penned by my hand on the 7th of Chronos, in the year 920 AF.