By: David Ogana

It takes lots of guts
To fight my father
The father insect.

knowing well, he is
a butterfly, i leave him
stick to my shirt

to fly me east or west
south or north or either west of mine
Just where he chooses.

To have me positioned.
It says: child you belong
everywhere. I wander places,

would i have turned into things
into winds, the sea or the common trees
would i have turned into a city
or make a wish,

to fly the air as the bird?
i only carry this body along,
where ever i go, i live memories

behind me and never come back.
I couldn’t touch beauty, no i didn’t!
The real verb lies within me

and, my father fly me to places
low and high, in the like grasses
i am settled amongst little things.