We are, all of us, born in the dead of night;
Before it dawns on us that we might be:
Tricked into being //
A precarious essence, untethered, flutters,
Catching the Wind-der-Zeit,
Nur vie jeder sonst;
But the wind catches no word of Herr Irgendjemand:
The Deliverer of Identity.
We couldn’t shout out to you,
Unable to address frustration,
Without an indignant subject,
So we wept instead:
For the tomorrow that the we-not-to-be wouldn’t see,
In hopes Anybody might hear,
And please return a home-grown echo,
So we might blanket ourselves from the silence.
Wailings and shouting alike fade into the quicksand of just-then,
Ignored by anyone of import,
Which is to say ‘ of the now’.
Except for the claims of the young man,
One Herr Irgenjemand,
Who, against statistical likelihood, spake upon birth,
From the mouth of a babe: