This is the moment
You realize,
That no one has told you the truth.
Living with your God of Death
Is warmer,
Closer to the heart of the earth.
The time with your mother
Is filled
With silence.
You cannot tell her
How you spend your time,
How he feeds you pomegranates.
You cannot eat
The fruit she gives you, While looking her in the face.
There is nothing for you but the caves,
Where he peels the flesh
Of the pomegranates
With his lips, Not caring for the juice that sticks
To his fingers,
To his face.
Your mother is cold,
And she has cut your fruit for you.
No hands,
Just utensils.
She never used her hands
To hold you.
No one has told you the truth,
How cold it is
When you are gone.
How the crops stop growing,
And everything
Loses it’s colour.