Autonomous 101 Poem by Zakhele Anigon

The winds like sweet blades carve
And the subjects clothes wail that warmth can't they offer
Which why should be heard first, which joy and which sorrow should be shared
Being, hard and rough like infertile soil, needed to be watered with sweat to get fixed
But who would shed his blood to draw fleeting circles
No one, you hear? No one wants to know, for heavy and taxing is the knowledge
Like a star to which our sun seems like a spec of dust, doomed to collapse its greatness into a single dot where time and space do not exist as we perceive them
And who is asking us anyway?
The smith's hammer will fall and even if you could, maybe you shouldn't stop it
The balance is neither me nor you
The everything in its vanity, computes restlessly until it reaches zero
And then the heat is gone and by extension, life
With hands made from clay that hasn't dried yet, we carve the self
Nothing is given away, the merchant values trading and for a handful of rice, an arm or a leg you must trade
And happily they were traded but the rice got spent and limbs don't grow back
Like a tall tree that got ripped in half by mighty thunder and the weight of its brunches never let it heal
The mirrors, one by one, shattered to tinier and tinier pieces and the reflections multiplied but to see them, your look down you must turn
Heavy are the pieces, which one to pick up without seeing yourself, which one to pick up without bleeding