Then, Who Am I.

IMAGE: Danka Peter.

If I was a tree

you’d mold in your hands

the very best of loam, for my root

to blossom and grow into a fine shape.

The shape of freedom.

Giving you shade from the blistering elements

in every inch of distance.

If I was a country

you’d hoist my flag

swamped with the rainbow.

In foreign lands, you’d sing

joyfully my songs like the nightingale

at the sight of a rare fortune.

Every mission abroad

would be a nightmare.

In the midst of foreigners,

you’d desire with certainty

my warm embrace.

If I was the sea

you’d flock to my shores,

like the lost sheep of Israel.

Leaving ninety-nine brethren behind

and ignoring the Shepard’s call.

From the evening breeze to nightfall

basking intimately and savoring every encounter.

You’d become a pyrate,

lock you heart away, and never

dream of land.

But I was love.

You lost me — even — before I was born.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.