My child, your fists blaze like fire, your kiss is as fierce as a panther. If the sun could speak, it would use your voice. My child, your lashes are as robust as steel bridges, your heart encompasses the strength of a dinosaur, your speed rivals that of a plane, your tiny form teems with energy akin to a swarm of bees. Regrettably, the world you will come to claim was not meant for you this way – we’ve erred, and our knowledge has been inadequate. Believe me, there was a time when speech, travel and thought flowed freely. Before our restraining devices became too comfortable, you had the freedom to let all remain unconstrained: your door, your thinking, your destiny, even the expressive depths of your sparkling eyes.
My child, where two languages are waged in silent warfare, where no metrics define you, my child who embodies the dawn, who challenges all norms – not every secured entity is worth unlocking. My child, the melody of my nightingale: let no one dictate the method in which you utilize your key. The poem of the day originates from Polina Cosgrave’s latest anthology titled Cargo, published by The Gallery Press.