During the ancient harvest of the return
They grew their branches;
They penetrated our flesh;
Of morning.† Morning never ends.
Traditionís claws bent our branches growth
As a vulture, resting.† Free from gravity, it fed.
Our will to soar in heights unseen:
And every ancestor plants this seed.
No one is exempt.
As sap or blood continues
Swarming through the branch network
Cells bear the weight
Of perpetually receding depths
They restrict our spirit emission.
We take nothing from their stories; their nutrients,
And they would have it that way
Just to see their face in defiance of death.
DNA circumvents the linear structure of time
†by superimposing itself
Upon child after child.†
Our ancestors are a reflection of us:
They grasp ground while we cling to sky
Yet nobody, not even the seed
Is able to Sever its branch
from this bleeding tree.
Blood, in morning,
Evaporates under vultureís appetites.