in the dark of the night

my heart aches for the anonymous.

uncertainty looms freely at night:

what doesn’t steal at this hour?

even the wind covets the mortals’

treasure: tiny possession of air-

breathe, the underrated end to all.

but we’ll all pretend we’re ignorant

of this knowledge though my Mama’s

eye tells me that she’d wander one 

day in the dark in search of the hideout

of rest; only she dumbly reveals to me

the charity that death might offer.

even though this might be true,

i hear the anonymous whisper

“search within, a spark is aching

for the light”. Oh, my dear mother,

do wait for your glorious fruits.