How pencils break into two to
shape the silhouettes of a man
whose shadow only appears on canvases
and lost bedtime stories.

And a little bit of his beauty
in autumn
asks me to whisper to him the making of man,
and I tell him that he sits under the sun
with his mouth open wide,
waiting for a miracle to happen
like bleaching a chocolate skin
of its melanin
and I can taste that he is hungry for the Sun
hanging like a forbidden fruit.

I tell him man is made of greed.

That he is one, and the other one would shine on him
when he starts walking on the meadows.
That he can be hungry for the other Sun that is not him,
and he can devour it.

This is what a man from afar believes:
that there are two Suns,

I tell him he is made of melanin,
and a bit of sentience,
and he asks me for proof.

I ask him:

Does a clayware ask from a glassware
proof of being a clayware?

He says:


That there is proof of fire, and a bad history of falling apart
stringed together
like stars sewn into the fabric of the sky.

Then I say: Man too falls apart.

And he says: No!
That that is what it looks like from afar:
A-ware falling apart under the rain.

And I draw a portrait of him falling apart.





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