How many times can one be born
Before he is accustomed to the familiarly favorable taste of the afterbirth
Which locks itself eternally between his teeth
How many times can one love
Before expecting the warm breeze to slash salty sand into his eyes
Drying them to a bitter pulp
How many times can one hold himself
Convincing that everything is just fine
With hands covered in unnoticed, unknown residue
How many times can one grow old
Before seeing with glazed eyes, tasting with a menses-soaked tongue, feeling with a residual touch
That a lifetime is not enough
How many times can one laugh
Before starting to count the dried up salty tears that have already created another eroded ocean
How many times can one live
Before requesting a plea to be born again
And relearning nothing but how often we die
Paradise in the womb and its twenty-six peaceful days
Struggle through the tunnel that you never supplied
Fail, give up hope, paradise lost
Only to be reborn to a familiar paradise
Again.
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