Herr Irgendjemand

We are, all of us, born in the dead of night;

Before it dawns on us that we might be:

We are,

Caught unawares

Tricked into being //

Tricked.

 

A precarious essence, untethered, flutters,

Catching the Wind-der-Zeit,

Ungracefully,

Nur vie jeder sonst;

But the wind catches no word of Herr Irgendjemand:

He-To-Be,

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:

“You are.”

 

 

 

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