I pull on his stubborn roots
asking for stories,
fingers to ground
I play havoc with a fragile surface
allowing it to elevate again
on the crest of foreign soil.
Who knows if I have understood what
constitutes life, its completeness,
a precise foundation or the testament to birth—
the acceptance of death,
when even the tallest tree
solid in body and pure in soul can be shed
into fragments, thought of as myth, mystery
history to the Western mind.
Taste the twisted tongue, the perpetual weight
of heavy aromas and wandering eyes
the haters speak of unwanted presence
years in a language the heart does not understand
so many like myself have claimed to be the bridge
have crossed nothing, pulling by the shore
to rescue a drowning man.