Day 47 of 50 Poems/50 Days

Fifty

Even though fifty is there,
the other fifty is missing,
a weight to give it strength,
to keep the memories separate.

From the cedar trees
to the mango fields,
I can’t recall which came first.

Wait, I remember:
It was along a thin road,
then down deep into the forest,
underneath the rocks,
where we found slippery things,
where we kissed the dark earth,

We told her the few things we had learnt,
while we waited for the flocks to return,
one mass turning into several beasts,
where with one glance they would escape and leave.

I saw fifty birds,
like fifty grams,
half stayed in exile,
waiting out the next season.

I said fifty words,
said them fifty times,
fast and quick,
screaming with all my might.

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