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.