During which phase of evolution
did the blood in our veins get replaced with vitriol,
So much so that if a mosquito bites and we scratch,
what we spill is black venom,
As if it’s all we are left with
to spare, to share,
from the vastness we have acquired.
In which moment of our endless uncovering
did we become aliens to our quintessence?
NO. THIS ISN’T US.
This isn’t what our mothers had conceived us to be,
These vampires aren’t what they had borne in their bellies.
This putrid pound of flesh, this shame in disguise.
They didn’t feed us decay when as foetuses we lay,
They didn’t tell us rotten tales
when as children we played,
We turned their lifeblood and love
into streams of molten hate,
We turned their fairy tales
into our own horror stories.
When did we turn our mothers’ dreams
into bone-chilling nightmares?
When in the blessed name did we become
this baleful ignominy?
In which mortal language shall we apologize
for the blot we brought to their sacred sacs?
How on earth, and thereafter,
shall we atone for our filial impiety?