The Night Hawk
Whom shall I tell my tale of woes?
who shall sing with me
my song of oblivion
the evil that descended hearth-stead,
in the tail of a winter night,
swooped upon us like a bald eagle,
as vicious as a hungry wolf,
raped my mothers and their daughters,
and planted in them his abomination.
Who shall I tell my shame?
The unthinkable event of that night
had left behind unthinkable souvenirs.   
Now, my mothers’ bellies are swollen with abominations.
Whom shall I tell my fathers’ dilemmas?
My fathers now accept congratulations for another man’s evil.
What other option do they have anyway?
I have tried running away,
but I still hear the echoes of my imaginations—
the penury of my mother’s voices,
giving birth to abominations.
Running won’t cleanse my roots of the abominations.
But where do I begin?
Everywhere pongs of abomination.
How do I begin?
When my mothers even love the abominations?
When do I begin?
Maybe when the sun trades shifts with the moon?
I cry like a mother hen.
the night hawk has whisked my offspring.
I do not cry so the evil one would release his clench.
I’m only crying so the world would hear my voice.

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