If you were to write me a manuscript,
call it hope that’s dying
for an authority over its beating heart

sign it like you were god gifting its new born
a prayer it will promise to throw back

draw maps that look like sailors had dragged their ships
to mark a place they wanted to find treasure in years later

trace hieroglyphs that speak a language of their own,
lying peacefully –
undeciphered, untranslated, unlearnable

print the backs with news brought by peasants
who spent their lives digging up the only soil they believed in,
proudly laundering their status

bind it like a mother wraps her fingers around her baby.
Deliver the manuscript to me.

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