Tigress from the east

That's how a tigress was born

To end this part of history,

What shall I do? When a pen was deprived

In gazing my self-portrait- a curled up tongue and its searching buds in the middle of new,

Pink clutches of textile hands. By then, they dare say: This is a new baby.

It was weeping and hugging, me under its day light and night breezes but no! It is not for me.

Not for me,

Not for them,

Not for those people when their iron masks never vanish as if they have forgotten- yet I remember, and fingers sketch

Struggling years into my enameled charm, face nerves and flipped flips of my nose wrapped by heated metals on their climax,

And they brush not gently, battle boats crushing lands of my autonomy. Compassion is harder for them, than invasion.

And they sail their steamships away.

What shall I do? When my dismembered lawns breathe through its dehydrated lungs, wears torn cells here at every leaf tip and there at venging kneels.

And kneeling deeply, until shrouded with mushrooming daggers in spring. I loosen my fists,

Unfreeze them.

Quiet! Do not startle those baby bunnies- by every time when those two-feet looking down. Their tiny toes fluttering with butterflies, play in different seasons and hours,

After I grawl once again to the cold wind.

Babies, they play in a fresh season whilst their canine teeth, rolling out of their sealed lips,

Like beany nose above two lines of bleak mouths of baby bunnies.

The pen squeals, sometimes when my ink pours down a letter, can't I see the danger?

No, I can't. Pointed nails crumbles into a light of sharpness- babies always feel at something vague,

Until then, my ink pours.

Flip and a string of dots following, they run! A baby bunny worms out, shrugging muds

From peached toes to infant-like spasms when late February wind greens baby-like hair.

Rumblings into cries, that's how they were born and sinking, into the air,

Into the grub,

Into those mumbles, about names they never felt in their mothers' breeds.

Lastly, into a downhill out of fluids- ironed and stoned, floating forward and

Writing and adding weight to the pen's touch, she then knows,

The ink must be alive, pumped with young fire to be melt.

And sings aloud about two whipping arms, or a crucified tigress when I

Was bruised in men's bullets, when hunters wonder why I bite my own tongue and

Being perfectly alone, lining my grave with thousands of tiny eyes underneath the soil

And clawing slowly, crawlingly, I reach out again and learn every moment,

Of many light lives of the underworld.

Digging, and gripping enormous tense at every March night, when the uttermost tension

Split and paint the heaven and hell into same color,

Then the sacred choir darts in,

A trembling triumph is in its divine yawn. Whereas every backbone is bent

Back into a pike and I yell, head lifts highly up

In my defined interval, and my pen remembers the last time of a tigress's roar,

Is when a baby bunny's hind legs were caught by an up-starting snake; horn ignites

And she splits, kicks every sharp snake away from her polished swords,

With her wild, flaming eyes on her own cross, where every prayer starts

Their sin and destroys it, into dust and swallow it straightly downwards,

Into penetration, into perverted dreams of conventional roods,

Until a completed finish, a moan,

That's how a tigress is born.