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They Conjure the Branch Gestalt

 

During the ancient harvest of the return

They grew their branches;

They penetrated our flesh;

They suspended us in the isolated air

Of morning.Morning never ends.

Traditionís claws bent our branches growth

As a vulture, resting.Free from gravity, it fed.

Our creativity:

Our will to soar in heights unseen:

Strangled.

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.

Ours is a circular movement, for

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.